Simple and Clean
by Ethelflaed
Summary: -AU, for SerenaArythusa's Contest, Complete- We all know about 1066: the Normans come and conquer the Anglo-Saxons, ushering in a new age of improvement. Sounds simple and clean, right? ...It's not that simple.
1. Death and Coronation

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh!

**Warnings:** Character death, very anti-Norman… Knowledge of 1066 required.

********

_In the fall of 1066, William and an army of 5,000 Normans sailed from France across the English channel and landed in England. At the same time, the king of Norway and an army of Vikings invaded England. King Harold and the Saxons fought off the Viking invaders and faced the Normans. At the Battle of Hastings, Harold was killed and the Anglo-Saxon army defeated. William, now known as William the Conqueror, declared himself king of England and set up a strong, efficient government. William had taken the first step toward making England a nation._

On the surface, you know, there's nothing wrong about that account of events. After all, William _did_ set up an efficient government. And most historians say the Conquest was for the best… William won, and improved things. Simple and clean.

But they don't mention the villages that were permanently harmed. No one reminds people on tours that those castles were originally built to throw rebellious Saxons in to rot. Because, in the grand picture of things, that's not important, is it?

Perhaps, it should be. But the boy that was trampled to death isn't important either… Nor his friends… One of which was mercifully killed in battle—the other was thrown into one of those beautiful, romantic castles, until he died. Those people aren't important either. The fact that William himself repented on his death, so ashamed he was of all he had done…

None of that's important. If it was important, it would make its way into the books, right?

Why don't I show you all the unimportant little details…

*********

The village of Horstede, snuggled in England, near a place called Hastings, was feasting. It was New Year's; and, just like several other days of the year, it meant feasting and a break from labor. Riddles were swapped—some witty, some highly indecent—ale was downed, and there was a general mood of content hanging in the air.

"Ælfwynn!" called a boy, looking around. "Ælfwynn?" He pushed some of his strangely pale hair out of his face and looked around. "Ælfwynn??"

"I'm right behind you," said the girl he was looking for. She smiled, her warm blue eyes full of happiness. Then, looking around, she asked, "Where's Wulfgar?"

Deor pointed at a blonde-haired boy over in a corner, telling riddles. "Riddling."

"He can guess riddles?" said Ælfwynn, staring.

"No. But he's trying to learn them. I lost the taste for it when they reached the bawdy ones."

Ælfwynn made a face and muttered something, and the two walked off, laughing. Wulfgar looked up to see his two friends disappearing, and got up from his table and followed them, almost tripping over himself like an oversized puppy. "Deor! Don't just wander off like that when I need you."

Deor grinned, looking _almost_ mischevious—well, for Deor. "But I thought you were telling riddles, Wulfgar!"

The boy shot Deor a look. "It would be better to say I was trying to get _away_ from them. The cloud was fun, the others…"

The white-haired boy held up a hand. "Please, don't talk about it."

Wulfgar nodded. "I don't really—OW!" He turned to see a very guiltless looking Ælfwynn pretending not to know about the packed ball of snow that had just hit the back of his head. Glaring, he packed his own snow and threw it at Deor.

"What did I do?"

"I don't want to throw a snowball at a—" Deor's own snowball came hurtling at him.

Aldwulf, another member of the group, came over. "Hey, guys, I was—"

_Fwhack!_ Wulfgar had ducked, and so Deor's snowball had hit Aldwulf directly in the face. Deor blinked, smiled innocently, and ran for it.

"GET BACK HERE!"

In the midst of the furious battle of snow, a ball went flying, and ended up colliding with someone's much-abused fence. It stood there, then collapsed. No one had noticed—yet. The four stared down at it, then at each other.

"Anyone," said Wulfgar, "up for a game of draughts?"

They all headed off as far from the collapsed pig as possible.

*********

The two men sat, playing at chess. One was young, with cold blue eyes and dark chestnut hair. The other was somewhat older, with hair that was standing on the edge of grey, though not there yet. Inside, the room was relatively warm, while outside a cold New Year's day reigned. But the men were not concerned with the weather—and barely with chess.

"Do you think he will live?" asked the older one, tentatively moving a pawn. It made a scraping noise against the smooth surface of the board.

"No," replied the other, taking out a knight with his bishop. The move was silent.

The older one moved into position to take the bishop. "You believe there really is no chance—none at all?"

"Outside of miracles, no. Queen takes rook. And a miracle, Brihtric, is too much to hope for."

"Why are you always such a pessimist?"

"Checkmate," said the other, without bothering to reply to that question.

Brihtric stared at the half-forgotten game in surprise. He was indeed beaten. Respectfully, he tipped his king over, then pushed the board aside. "Enough of chess, Cyneheard. Let us say Edward dies. What then?"

"Then the witan will elect a new leader," said Cyneheard, carefully replacing the pieces on the board, for the next players.

"I know that. But who do you think the King will choose as his heir?"

"Edgar… Harold… Duke William… The throne is Edgar's by right, but he's thirteen. I'd rather _not_ watch a thirteen-year-old boy run the country," muttered Cyneheard, sliding a rook over to its corner.

"Nor do I. Harold's been putting in many good words for Duke William, lately—and Edward did grow up in Normandy, after all—"

"If Edward elects a foreigner, the country will refuse whoever he picks. William, Harald, Swein… I doubt it would matter. And William's not only a foreigner, but he has a weaker claim than the other two."  Cyneheard set a white knight down with a sharp _click!_

"But the only Saxon of royal blood is Edgar, and, as you said, he is two years too young. I suppose he could choose Harold…or Tostig." Brihtric added the second name as an afterthought—and a rather unsavory afterthought.

Cyneheard smirked, fingers lingering on a pawn as he replaced it. "Tostig? After Northumbria? He's in exile, Brihtric, and he's not coming back. Even Edward, in the worst of his regretful moods, wouldn't dare even bring Tostig back."

"Harold?"

There was a pause, and Cyneheard rolled the king piece around on his hand. "If he chose Harold… I doubt we would have anything to fear, from the people—or from any of the frustrated would-be heirs."

"I suppose you're biased, being his house-carl," said Brihtric. He picked up the black knight from the taken pile and placed it, the last of pieces, into its square.

"Oh, I am. But I'll still stand by whoever they pick. The witan aren't called wise men for no reason—they'll do the right thing." Cyneheard stood, and stretched. "I'm off to Cynewulf. Goodbye, Brihtric."

Brihtric watched the young house-carl walk off, and allowed himself a smile. Cyneheard could be refreshing—at least _he_ didn't run around with long hair, imitating those in Flanders. Young people…

*********

Cyneheard strode down the passage, worried. Why did Edward have to pick this time, of all times, to die? He could have at least waited two more years…

A voice broke into his thoughts. "Cyneheard?"

He looked down, and smiled at his younger brother. "What?"

"Why is everyone so worried? No one will tell me anything."

Cyneheard sighed and led his brother to their chamber. "Come here, Cynewulf, and I'll explain."

The boy plopped down by his older brother, and stared up at him. "Well, brother? What is it?"

Cyneheard traced patterns on the floor. "Edward the Confessor has reigned in England for as long as you can remember, Cynewulf. But he's dying. And the great problem is that he has no heir—Cnut made sure of that. The only boy left of royal blood is Edgar, and he's too young to see after the country. No one wants a foreigner—and that leaves us with Harold—or Tostig—who, while English, are not royal. It goes on forever this way."

Cynewulf stared down, quiet. Then, he said, softly, "What will the witan do?"

"I don't know. No one knows, not even they… If only Edward would wake up and tell us what he wanted. I wouldn't be surprised if he was vague in death as he was in life." Cyneheard laughed harshly. His brother looked up, startled, and the older sibling stopped.

"Do you understand now?"

Cynewulf nodded. "Brother?"

"Yes?"

"Who do you want to be king?"

Cyneheard, who was leaving again, looked back.

"What really matters, Cynewulf, is what the witan want."

*********

It was January Fourth, and Edward still showed no signs of waking. Cyneheard stood quietly in a dark corner of his King's bedroom, watching everything, but saying nothing.

Queen Edith was there, of course. And Harold, as the senior earl of the kingdom, would obviously be there. Stigand, Archbishop of Canterbury, stood near Harold, and one of Edward's foreign friends, Robert FiztWimark, waited also. Cyneheard noted the last with satisfaction. If anyone tried to deny whatever would happen by calling it an English lie, they would never get around FiztWimark.

He was distracted from this line of thinking by hearing the king stir, and listened attentively. This was it. After six days of torturous waiting and wondering, they would finally know the heir to England.

And so it was a shock to the house-carl to hear him start to prophecy about dead Norman monks and curses, and trees joining together.

Cyneheard was gratified to hear Stigand murmur to Harold, "Raving, pure madness." Edward suddenly seemed to snap out of it, and spoke, weak with sickness, but apparently sane. He told them not to mourn; and blessed his sobbing wife. Then he stretched his hand out to Harold, and spoke the words everyone was impatiently hoping for.

"I commend this woman and all the kingdom to your protection. Serve and honor her with the faithful obedience as your lady and sister, which she is, and do not deprive her, as long as she lives, of any honor she may receive from me. I also commend to you those men who have left their native land for love of me and served me faithfully. Take an oath of fealty from them if you wish, and protect and retain them; or send them with your safe conduct across the Channel to their own homes with all they have acquired in my service."

And with that he fell back once more. Relief flooded Cyneheard, and he glanced at Harold, and finally, after all the agony of waiting and the torture of doubt, he knew it. Harold, his lord, was king.

Edward had declared him so.

*********

The messenger ran swiftly through the streets of Rouen. Duke William was in the park, he'd been told, and thence he went, as fast as he could bear. That was his job, after all.

He finally found William, preparing to hunt. The Duke stood in his group of friends, next to a page who was holding a strung bow. "Word! Word from England!" the messenger called. A slow smile, invisible to the messenger, spread across William's face—fading the instant he heard the news.

"King Edward is dead, and Harold is raised to the kingdom," said the messenger, bowing.

Whatever equipment William himself was holding was dropped. William played with the laces of his cloak, staring outward, then left. Like that.

Robert watched after him, worried. He was just a low-ranking knight (as knights go)—but this sort of behavior never boded well. It might mean war.

War wasn't uncommon in Normandy—when the knights couldn't find anyone to fight out of the country, they generally fought each other. The Church, in fact, had declared certain days of the week illegal to fight upon—something, Robert thought, the peasants were probably grateful for. It could be hard to plant when horses kept on trampling your crops into the ground.

Robert himself was nothing very warlike, to look at—he was, in fact, quite short. And his hair stuck out every which way. But he could be a fighter when he needed to, and despite his concern, he participated in the battles with the same gusto as everyone else did.

"I hope this is some sort of mistake," he said, glancing over at his friend. Stephen was a good bit taller than Robert, with pale blond hair, and tanned skin from working for days in the sun.

"I doubt it," muttered Stephen.

"Do you think it will mean war?" asked Robert.

"Robert. Here, an argument over livestock means war."

"Yes," said Robert, "but England's… Over there," he concluded, waving an arm in the general direction of England. "Across the water."

"Good for England," snapped Stephen. He was like that—moody, stormy, everything. Stephen had not particularly wanted to be knight—but he'd been pushed through the training anyway, and he still wasn't over it.

Robert sighed, and gave up trying. When Stephen got like this, there was no talking to him.

*********  
  


William sat on the boat, cutting its way through the Seine, staring down at the water. _Would you really do this, Harold?_ he asked of it. William received no reply—but he hadn't really expected one. There would be no reply until Harold could make one.

_I don't believe it,_ thought William, watching the waves part on the prow. _We fought together—he saved my soldiers in battle, dragged two from quicksand… Why do that, if he was an oath-breaker? No. It's a lie…_

Lap, lap, lap, went the waves on the boat sides, but the boat finally stopped with a crunching noise. William stalked off the boat, and through Rouen to his palace. No one even _tried_ to speak with him—whether he believed it or no, William was angry. The Duke finally reached the palace hall, where he settled down on a bench, leaning against a pillar.

He'd write a message to Harold, he decided. As quickly as possible, to clear the entire mess up before any knew about it. That would leave Harold free to act on his conscience. A letter—a letter would do it…

The sound of humming reached him, and he looked up to see his steward—another William, William FitzOsbern, making his way through a crowd of worried people—probably worried, thought the Duke, over what had caused his anger.

But FiztOsbern's message to William was direct and short.

"They all know, William," he said, dropping into place beside his duke. "The word has spread through the whole city."

There was no good in trying to hide it anymore.

*********

His name was Shadi, and he walked through streets of Rouen, unseen by any of the people. He wore a long robe that came down to his feet, and a turban upon his head.

He arrived at a soldier's tent, and, revealing himself to the soldier, inserted a key in his forehead. Then Shadi withdrew it, and said to the man,

"You will meet another soldier named Robert, and you two will gamble together. Before the game concludes, you will offer this—" Shadi placed a rectangular box, fashioned of gold, upon the table, "—as a stake. And you will lose it…and you shall not regain it."

Shadi turned away, and left, walking into nothingness, and towards England, a gleaming golden pendant swinging in his hand.

********

**That's all for now. Yes, this first chapter had…nothing to do with Yu-Gi-Oh! That will change, I promise.**

**I don't know if I'm supposed to tell you who is who… But if _you_ can't tell, then I'm not writing correctly. Bleargh. (pauses) Horstede is a real village—anyone out there that's read _1066: The Year of the Conquest_? Yah. I got the idea from that book, so root, root for David Howarth!**

**The whole part with William hunting and boat is laid out in a poem whose name escapes me. Point is—I didn't make it up.**

****

**Glossary of Anglo-Saxon Names and Terms**

**_Aldwulf_—Old wolf [I think—not sure.]**

**_Ælfwynn_—elf joy**

**_Cyneheard_—Noble bitterness**

**_Cynewulf_—noble wolf [Cyneheard and Cynewulf is the name of an entry of the _Anglo-Saxon Chronicle_, year 755.]**

**_Deor_—deer [Deor was also a poem—named after the poet—on the nature of disaster.]**

**_House-carl_—personal bodyguard. "Hearth companion". In war, they protected their leader. In peace, they acted somewhat like a police force.**

**_Witan_—wise men. They were basically the king's counselors.**

**_Wulfgar_—Wolf spear**


	2. Cyneheard's Trip

**Disclaimer: Leof Takahashi [Lord Takahashi] owns Yu-Gi-Oh! I merely am copying him.**

**Warnings: Same as before—the anti-Norman part doesn't come yet, but it will. William shall pay for harming my darling Saxons. And people will die. Probably because there is a war involved.**

**Very, very slight historical error in the first chapter—playing cards were not invented until later on in history. I refused to believe that gambling didn't exist, I just can't find out how they gambled. Anyway, the error has been fixed…as of 1/30/04.**

********

When the witan received William's message, the answer they gave him was short and to the point: Harold was king, and anointed by the priests. This was sent off, leaving most people confused.

But to the few who did not pass William off as someone merely putting in a belated bid for the throne, but as an enemy, smelt the sour tang of war in the air. Harold was one of these—and accordingly, the _fyrd_, the army that was gathered from the whole countryside, was summoned.

Cyneheard was somewhat displeased to find that he was a summoner. As a matter of fact, he was very displeased. He thought about this as he sat on his shaggy little horse, alone, and very, very bored. There was no Brihtric to complain to or play chess with, nor any Cynewulf to amuse, or even some other thick-headed house-carl for company. There was only the horse—which was not that much.

In an attempt to entertain himself, he started to recite snatches of poems the _scop_ had sung for the thegns and house-carls in the mead-hall—anything and everything he could remember.

And so it was that he came to the Maldon poem. It had stuck in his mind, despite his attempts to dislodge  it. The poem he found infuriating. Why write a song about someone's loss? Why glorify a man who failed?

He passed over it irritably. But the poem refused to leave—possibly because of Cyneheard's dislike of it. Lines ran through his head almost at random, and in haphazard order, as he fixed his eyes grimly on the ground and attempted to ignore his own thoughts.

Then the Earl was overswayed by his heart's arrogance… 

_Yes,_ thought Cyneheard. _He was arrogant. He behaved like a child and not a true thegn, and betrayed his lord…_

He deliberately started thinking about other things; his destination, for one, and how he should behave to the people living within the village. He had already thought through most of that…but it was better than nothing.

********

As night fell upon Cyneheard and his horse, across the water, Robert was staring up a box.

It was a golden box. A very pretty little golden box—well, not really _little_, actually rather large (for a box), but it wasn't gigantic.

That's what Robert thought, at least. Though his thoughts were not staying very straight at all. That probably explained why he was gambling with a soldier he had met on the street. It might also explain his obsession with that box. And the thoughts themselves could probably be tracked to some of the wine he had been drinking.

His gambling partner, however, was not suffering greatly. He was used to wine, and gambling, and strange obsessions. For a normal soldier, Alain contained more flair and excitement than Robert. He also had much better luck—Robert had been losing steadily for as long as they had been playing.

And how long _that_ had been was anyone's guess.

Alain was now regarding Robert with something akin to awe. "You lost again…"

"Did I?" asked Robert. He blinked down at the dice. "Oh. I did."

There was something wrong, Alain resolved, in letting someone with this luck come under the influence of wine, and allowing him to then gamble.

"Robert," he said, looking at the somewhat confused soldier, "I think you need to stop now."

Robert made a noise like a hurt animal. "But…but the _box!_"

"The box will be here another time," said Alain. "Go home. Get some sleep."

"One more try," said Robert. "Just one more. Then I'll go home and sleep."

Alain shrugged and allowed Robert to toss the first roll. To their extreme surprise, two fives came up. It appeared even the worst luck in the world ended. 

Alain tossed his own die, and they were both surprised again. Snake eyes. The gambling master had lost.

********

Stephen was having the nightmare. Again. 

He was running, always running, though he left nowhere and reached nowhere. And a thing was chasing him. He would run farther and it would pursue; he would dodge (how, he was not quite sure, since he never went anywhere), and it was always there; he could not escape, but he frantically tried to.

And then it would catch up to him. Stephen would turn around, and look straight into the bloodshot, maddened eyes of himself, and he could hear, as he woke, laughter.

It was always the same, never changing, but each dream becoming worse and worse for the knowledge of what was to come. Yet he never told anyone about it. Stephen knew they would tell him to talk to a priest. And he would not do that. Never. He saw them at the services. He could not take more than that. Priests were painful for him.

Stephen shook the fear from himself and went back to sleep. He did not dream again.

********

It had been a long time since Cyneheard had slept outside the meadhall. He heartily hoped it would not happen again until there was really a war. He got back on the horse, feeling sore, and went off again. If he reached Horstede by noon, he might get the thegn—Ulfer—whoever he was—to leave by tomorrow. Then Cyneheard would be free to go back to Harold and Cynewulf, and all would be well again.

In Horstede, Deor woke up in a far better mood than Cyneheard. True, there was work to do, but unlike Cyneheard, Deor had the advantage of a bed. Yawning, he accepted a piece of bread from his father and dressed himself.

Deor and his father were cottagers—they held only a small amount of land from Ulfer, and they worked it only once a week for him (though three times at harvest). This left them free the other five working days to tend the garden by the house and also to their real business—bees. They were bee-keepers.

Deor was glad of this, because he was not very strong. He had taken after his mother's side—and they all tended to be more grace than strength. As it was, everything could be completed with relative ease, even the one day he and his father tilled the land.

But first, to check on the garden.

He walked out onto the dewy earth and walked over to the garden, checking to make sure the plants were sound. Lifting up a leaf, he was surprised to see something glint in the sunlight. It was metal—a yellow metal, from what he could see. Gold.

Shocked, he reached out to it. His hand had almost touched it, when his father called.

"Everything all right?"

"Yes!" called Deor, scrambling to his feet. He pushed the shining metal to the back of his mind. It _couldn't_ have been gold. There was no gold in Horstede. It was probably some sort of rock…

Someone watched him run off. Two emotionless eyes followed the boy as he whipped around the house, and then continued to watch, as if they could still see him.

The boy would discover the Ring when the time was right. And only when the time was right. All things must fall into place accordingly. Then Atemu could fight against his enemies one last time, and be victorious. Everything drew near.

It would all be over before the year was out.

The eyes closed, and the watcher slowly disappeared into the shadows he lived in.

As he left, the sound of a horn rent the air.

.

Around every village, there were two fences, the outermost of which surrounded its territory. Here every stranger was required to blow a horn, to show that they were not an enemy. But there were not many strangers that came to Horstede.

Which is why everyone dropped what they were doing and ran to see who was blowing that horn. Cottagers or villeins, they all shot to the edge of the town.

The stranger was tall house-carl, with cold eyes and a colder feel—which contrasted strangely with the shaggy beast he rode. An immediate air of defensiveness settled on the folk there. If the house-carl noticed, he paid no attention, but proclaimed loudly that he was here to speak with the thegn, Ulfer.

As it happened, he was in luck. Ulfer was home, about to leave, but still home. He too had come when the horn had sounded, and when he introduced himself, the house-carl dismounted.

"I am Cyneheard, house-carl of King Harold. I am here to ask you, and any men you can spare with you, to come to the _fyrd_."

"There is war?" asked Ulfer.

"There will be," snapped Cyneheard. "Otherwise, I wouldn't be here."

"Is it the Welsh? …The Danes?" asked Ulfer.

"Neither. It's William of Normandy—and if we leave _now_, I can get you to the coast. So do you mind getting ready?"

Ulfer and several others turned to gather what they could. Wulfgar grinned at Deor.

"A war! This is my chance to do something! To make my name remembered!" He walked off, grinning broadly.

Deor smiled back, weakly. There was a tap on his shoulder, and he turned to see Cyneheard.

"Staying behind?" asked the soldier, dryly. The unspoken word of "coward" hung the air, and Deor was anxious to clear the matter up. 

"I would come if I could—but I'm not very strong…"

Cyneheard looked him over, then nodded. "You wouldn't last two seconds. Though it is possible none of the others can…" He noted Deor's look of alarm, and shrugged. "It's war. People die. If they weren't your friends, they would be someone else's."

"What is the war over?" asked Deor, curiously.

"William," said Cyneheard, "believes Harold has stolen the throne which was promised to him. In fact, he says Harold promised it to him—thereby calling our king an oath-breaker. He declared war, and so now the English go off to protect their shores…"

Deor, leaving the house-carl, was confused. He didn't know much about Normandy—only that they lived across the water. But he did remember hearing once that they fought on horses.

How was William getting his horses across water?

He finally decided that the rulers must know what they were doing.

After Deor left, Cyneheard proceeded to pace up and down the village, waiting for them to finish. It was obvious to everyone that the man was not high on patience (or courtesy).

"Won't he stay _still?_" Ælfwynn asked Wulfgar's sister, Wærthryth.

"He must be worried," said Wærthryth. "He's probably seen many battles—it must be hard for him…"

Something was hard for Cyneheard, but it was not the thought of battle. It was waiting for the villagers to move. They couldn't have _that_ much to take. And it was only half a day to the coast…

In this way Cyneheard waited until it was evident that Horstede was not moving until tomorrow. Then he finally stopped his ceaseless pacing and went to Ulfer, and informed that due his villagers' slowness, he (Cyneheard) would be forced to stay the night. (The villagers immediately added tact to their list of things Cyneheard needed. Whether the soldier knew it—or cared—he would probably be a topic of conversation for quite some time.)

Horstede was a very small village, and since Ulfer now had a guest, naturally the entire place turned up at his home and made themselves comfortable. They also bombarded Cyneheard with questions about the court.

"Do they recite many poems?"

"Yes."

"Do you listen to them?"

"Yes."

"Would you recite some?"

"No."

"What are women wearing?"

"About the same thing you are…"

"What's your favorite poem?"

"The one about Beowulf."

"Would you recite _that_?"

"No."

"Have you fought many battles?"

"Yes."

"What about a riddle?"

"No."

"Where did you fight them?"

"Wales, mostly."

"Are you _really_ a house-carl?"

"Yes…"

After a while, the villagers stopped pestering him and returned to their own homes. And, tired, Cyneheard went to sleep. Soon the village was immersed in slumber, waiting until the rising of the sun to wake—and go to war.

Someone watched Cyneheard sleep. He reached out and soundlessly withdrew the house-carl's _seax_, a knife carried by most Saxons. One dark finger ran down the blunt edge of the blade.

So they were all slowly falling together—pharaoh, robber, and priest all. The last of three was here before him.

Everything was ready; everything was perfect.

All that had to happen was the war…

********

Cyneheard woke before the sun rose and was pleased—for Cyneheard—to see the villagers almost ready to leave. As the glimmer of the sun's fire crept across the horizon, he finally led those who could—or were willing—to fight away from the village.

After a while, someone asked him a question. It was a rather eager looking boy, possibly younger than Cyneheard. He had bright blond hair and large brown eyes, and reminded Cyneheard slightly of a puppy that Cynewulf was engaged in caring for. He immediately dismissed the resemblance as a passing fancy.

"Didn't you say the war was with Normandy?"

"Yes," said Cyneheard.

"Don't the Normans live across the water?"

"Yes. That's why we're defending the coast."

The boy blinked. "Then how will Duke William get here?"

"By boat, presumably. Unless it decides to freeze over for him specifically, so that he and his horses can ride across the ice."

"Why does he need horses?"

"Because," said Cyneheard, nearly out of patience, "that's how they fight. On horseback."

Wulfgar had never seen a war-horse. The horses in England were mainly of the same shaggy little type Cyneheard rode—never intended for war and never used that way.

"How do they—"

"Why don't you ask William?" snapped Cyneheard. "I'm sure he could answer all your questions—if he didn't imprison you first."

And with that statement, he stormed off ahead of the rest—still in sight, but annoyed. And the boy, for that time at least, asked no more questions.

********

**The first person to make one _seax_ joke will be killed slowly. You have been warned.**

**Anyway, I think I defined all the terms except for _scop_ and thegn, so I'll define those. A scop was basically a guy that recited poems in the meadhall. And pronounce thegn "thane"—which is the way you are supposed to pronounce it—and I think you'll know what it means.**

**The meadhall, incidentally, wasn't where Anglo-Saxons went to get drunk. It was the king's hall, a place of fellowship, poetry…and mead. Hence the name.**

**I think that's it, so I'll reply to the reviews and then work on chapter three. (By the way, the notes are in bold because I wanted to make sure you didn't think this was part of the _story_…)**

**Oh. Question, question: Does anyone know what the English Channel was called around this time? I can't find that anywhere…**

**One more note, then I promise to shut up. People, I'm entering this into a contest. That means I want it to be as good as it possibly can be. So I desperately need criticism for this. I don't care if something seems trivial or unimportant. _Please_ do not hesitate to offer some criticism. I will not be offended or hurt, as long as said criticism is constructive. So PLEASE criticize. I really, really need it. (gives puppy eyes to readers) And if you could tell me what I'm doing correctly as well, that would be a great help. But I want criticism more. GIMME GIMME GIMME!!!!**

**Mouself: Hey, Stephen means "Crowned One". Stop complaining. (whacks with spoon)**

**Nekostar 2: Thanks.**

**Angelkohaku: Note to self: Never talk about two stories at once…sorry for confusing you. Creepy fact, though—the Norman Conquest was a crazy, harebrained scheme that everyone thought was doomed to failure. That almost makes me respect William.**

**Almost.**

**And history RULES!!!!!!!!**

**demon angle: I am…**

**Little_Child_of_the_West_Wind: (scribbles down) Parts…were…hard to follow. Criticism! I hope this chapter was easier… If not, whack me with a dead salmon…**

**DaakuKitsune: Why would they remove my story? AAAAAAH! (runs around in circles) Nooooo!**

**When I learn Anglo-Saxon curses, I will tell you…**

**B/k: Why would I kill you?? I MUST HAVE CRITICISM! GIVE ME CRITICISM, CRUEL WORLD!**

**Tamara Raymond: History textbooks are useless for Anglo-Saxon England. Want to hear what the textbooks say? Read the quotation at the beginning of the chapter. That's a direct quote (which I don't own). I read Anglo-Saxon books…my precious… (zombie walks to her shelf dedicated to Anglo-Saxon themed books and hugs them) Angloooooooooo…Saaaaaaaaaaaa…xooooooooooon…**

**: I'm glad you liked the chess game. Chess is fun… I stink at it, but it is still fun…**

**Silver Dragon Golden Dragon: ALT 0198 for uppercase…can't remember lowercase.  I'd read High Crystal Guardian's stuff, but I can't, because it is PG-13… But thanks for your review! And update!**

**Tuulikki: I'm glad you waited, because this is the only thing I've written that is of any value… History is good. Very, very good. Except for the Renaissance. (hiss) (boo) (claws on blackboard) I'm glad everyone is in character—scary, I actually managed it for once…**

**Die, Normans! (deranged cackle)**


	3. Devils and Puzzles

I don't own YGO!; warnings still stand. All characters mentioned in here are either canon or historical unless otherwise stated (i.e. Brihtric isn't either, he's an OC who has died on me). And ð is pronounced "th".   
  


Thanks to B/k for betaing this.   
  


********   
  


The fyrd gathered, nervous, excited, and questioning. Yet February passed, and nothing happened; they calmed down a bit, even though there were still the occasional people running down the beach screaming the word "Ship!" repeatedly. March came and went, with a decided lack of war. And then came April, and Easter.   
  


Something happened then. But, for the moment, let us go back to February, across the Channel--and to Normandy. 

********   
  


Like many of his time, William depended on lower nobleman (and lower beneath) to support him in war. Accordingly, he called together his barons at Lillebonne, in order to gain their support to attack England. This was the second such meeting he had called: the first had been amongst closer friends, who had told him to present his plan to a larger group. And there he gave the three wrongs Harold had committed against him.   
  


The first was that Harold had murdered Alfred, brother of Edward the Confessor, along with his father, Godwin. (This despite the fact that Harold was ten years old at the time, and that Godwin had been cleared of the above murder twice.)   
  


The second? Harold had been hostile to those of Normandy living in England; that he had driven them out, with his brothers and father, when they had returned to England from exile in 1502.   
  


The last was much more recent: Harold was a oath breaker on the bones of saints, a usurper, and a traitor.   
  


And then William set forth his plan. He would wait for favorable winds and then sail thousands of horses by boat to England, attack Harold, presumably win, and prove to the world that he truly was the rightful king of England.   
  


There was one enormous problem that William had not addressed in speaking to the barons. To put it simply, it was this:   
  


No one transported mounted armies over the water. Not since the Romans and the Greeks had such a thing been attempted. But they had highly advanced galley boats in which to transport those horses.   
  


William would be using cargo-boats.   
  


There was a second problem, linked to the first: presuming you could load thousands of men and horses onto boats, you would be left waiting for favorable winds. And if you did get a favorable wind, how could you rely on it to stay?   
  


The barons flatly refused the plan. It was too risky. Let Harold stay King of England--there was no way this could work, it wasn't profitable, and there was no point in going about it.   
  


The Duke was completely stunned. But he recovered and then set about convincing the barons that attacking England was a good thing and a fruitful one.   
  


First he tried trickery--the faithful FitzOsbern let the barons elect him as spokesman, and promptly sided with William. But the shouts of anger from the others drowned out his promises of help.   
  


Since that failed him, William arranged to see each baron alone. And alone, they could not match him for pure will power. They each left, promising some number of men and to build a few ships, and walked from their leader with whispers of English land in their ears.   
  


Yet an army formed purely from Normandy would be crushed by the English. So out William rode to the other counts and dukes, and also to the King of France. (Partly, also, to request that they not attack Normandy while he was gone.) There were other charges laid against Harold, none of which made much of an impression upon them. One man, Count Eustace of Boulogne, did come with William to England, but that was the only truly welcoming answer he received. (And not a particularly surprising one, either, considering Count Eustace had in fact, upon visiting Edward, been openly offensive to the English town of Dover, who had promptly driven him out of the city and out of England.)   
  


However, the only hostile answer William received was from Count Conan of Brittany, who first wished William good luck, and then promised to seize Normandy, as it was rightfully his. (A few days later, he died from poison spread on his bridle, gloves, and his hunting horn. William was blamed for this; however, it appeared that it was done without his instigation by someone trying to please him.)   
  


Other representatives of William's were sent to Denmark and to Germany--and one to Rome. But the embassy to Rome was not William's idea.   
  


That was Lanfranc's.   
  


Lanfranc was an Italian, a logician, a theologian, and a highly respected churchman. But he was also a politician, who saw straight through William's claims and stepped in to help.   
  


Even if Harold had no right to be the English King, there was no proof William had, either. The promises of Edward and Harold rested upon William's word alone, and his relationship to the English throne? His great-aunt had been the wife of two kings and mother of Edward. None of these would stand very long if, for some reason, William was suddenly subjected to intense scrutiny.   
  


He needed another reason, a new purpose, to give his quest for conquest strength. The aim, as presented to the world, should not be that of William's gaining of England. It should be a war to purify the English church, a holy war. A war that could offer salvation to the men that fought within it.   
  


So the Archdeacon of Liseux went to Rome. The case for William was presented. Harold was not represented--after all, it would take a month to go to England and back. If anyone pointed out they were only hearing William's case, he was not heard.   
  


The Archdeacon returned with the Pope's blessing, a banner to bring into battle, and a ring containing a relic of St. Peter. There was a condition attached; William would be the vassal of the Pope and hold England for him.   
  


William had no intention of acting as anyone's vassal, but he accepted the gifts and was quiet.   
  


Elsewhere in Normandy, a short knight was having troubles. Before him lay scattered golden pieces, some of which had been shoved together in a strange lump that somehow resembled a sickly cow.   
  


"Curse you!" snapped Robert, staring at the puzzle. Despite all efforts to solve it, nothing happened. (This amused Stephen to no end--although he had tried it as well, with no success.) "Curse you and whoever invented you..." he mumbled, trying to shove another piece in. His entire hunk of golden pieces promptly fell apart on him. Robert let his hand crash onto the table, and brought it sharply upwards, clutching it, then glared at the sharp piece it had landed upon.   
  


It glittered at him.   
  


With a clatter, the knight rose and stomped away from it, still holding his hand, to find his friend. He did so quickly.   
  


"Are you still trying to solve your prize?" asked Stephen, amused.   
  


"Yes," said Robert. "I thought I was making progress..."   
  


"What happened your hand?" asked the other, curious.   
  


"Nothing," said Robert quickly. "Just whacked it on something."   
  


Stephen gave him a skeptical look.   
  


"I did!"   
  


"...So, how about this 'progress' of yours?"   
  


"It fell apart on me," sighed Robert. "Again. The golden thing is possessed, I tell you..."   
  


"Don't joke about possession," said Stephen, returning to his normal bad humor. "And don't mention you're carrying something worth who knows what..."   
  


"Who would steal from a knight?" asked Robert, shrugging. "I don't think anyone would try that--they'd have to be crazy."   
  


Stephen grunted and the two walked off.   
  


"Did you hear that?" asked someone with a slight lisp, watching them disappear.   
  


His companion turned around, annoyed. They were both relatively small people; one was reminiscent of a snake, and the other had the attitude of a grizzly bear. The former was the one staring after the knights.   
  


"No, mainly because I'm busying hiding the things you were too busy to steal."   
  


"He has something of pure gold," lisped the other. "That would be worth quite a lot..."   
  


"Good for him. There's a soldier coming, and I don't like the way he's looking at us..."   
  


"Quiet, I'm thinking," snapped the first. "He's about our height...and he has a hurt hand..."   
  


"He's also a knight. I don't want to mess with a knight. I don't want to die!"   
  


"Let me think of plan," muttered the other. "Just let me think of a plan..."   
  


His associate gave him a doubtful look. He knew of these plans.   
  


********   
  


To return to England, it was just past Easter--the Tuesday past, in fact. The men by the sea were becoming complacent; the people of Horstede had decided there had never been a threat and that the King had overreacted. It was spring, and new life was everywhere. It was not a time to think of war or death. Christ is risen; the world rejoices.   
  


Yet Deor thought of death. He did, in fact, think of death every Easter. Someone had died, a few years ago, just this time of year--Æðelfrið, his younger sister. Like Deor, she had not been very strong. But unlike Deor, her weakness was deadly. When a disease came, she withered, a leaf tossed in the fire, and died almost instantly.   
  


He missed her greatly. Directly after she had died, he had seen her, in the corner of his eye, heard her voice just out sight, started at the touch of a hand that was not there. It faded, slowly, and left him. Every year he went to her grave and said something to her, and this year was no different.   
  


As he left his home, his eye once again caught something glittering the earth of the garden, between the fresh leaves of the plants. He reached in, and pulled out, dangling on a cord, a strange golden pendant, a circular object with a triangle set in the middle, engraved with an eye. From it dangled other objects, pointed sharply.   
  


What was this doing in his garden? What was it doing in Horstede? What was it even doing in England? It was like nothing he had ever seen before in his life, strange and exotic--and frightening.   
  


He held it out at an arm's length, wary of letting it any closer. He would have to visit Æðelfrið later--this had to be taken to Ulfer's home immediately. Deor was no thief, but someone in the village was, and he refused to be blamed for their transgression.   
  


And yet...   
  


If he didn't sneak out tonight, he might not find the time to honor her until Sunday, and even then... He had always made it before, for her. He should make it now. And Ulfer was not home, either. His wife was, and she certainly wouldn't want him visiting late at night...   
  


Still not touching the ring itself, he skirted off to her grave. Even though all in the village knew that he did this, Deor was suddenly frightened of what might happen if someone saw the gold before he could return it. But he had already started off, and he could not turn back now.   
  


"Well, Æðelfrið," he murmured, setting a small bunch of flowers on the grave, "another year has passed. A house-carl--a real house-carl came to Horstede. He said there will be war soon... Though that was a long time ago, so perhaps there won't be one... Most in Horstede think that, at least. Also, I found this in the garden," he said thoughtfully, dropping the pendant on the earth by the grave, standing slightly to make sure no one was watching him. "I'm not sure--"   
  


His thoughts were broken and ripped apart by the comet in the sky. A trail of wild and fierce fire, it streaked overhead, a portent of doom, lighting the world into a blaze, painfully bright to behold.   
  


Deor took a step back, and slipped on the dew-covered ground. His hands stretched out to save himself, and one fell upon the golden circle. He recovered, and looked at his hand, which had not moved from where it had fallen. Staring, the boy could not believe what he saw. The ground was darkening--no, it was being covered by some sort of black mist. He jerked his hand away from it, but the darkness was spreading. Growing faster and faster, it climbed into the air, blotting out the fading fire of the comet, and the distance, out-shone light of the moon and stars. Deor found himself alone in a world of undulating night.   
  


Not alone.   
  


Two strange, crazed brown eyes opened in the night, narrow and maddened with hatred. From the gloom a form was made clear, of someone much like Deor himself, but older, and scarred. On his chest he wore the pendant from the garden, and he looked down at the fallen youth in disdain.   
  
  
  


"You're a devil," breathed Deor, frozen. "Be gone!" He had no reason to believe that would help, but he could always try...   
  


The other seemed to take a moment to absorb his language, then replied stiffly--and with strange inflections--"A devil--yes...a demon who has waited two thousand years for revenge. And we'll achieve it, won't we... Who are you?"   
  


Deor remained fiercely silent, eyes darting everywhere, seeking escape. But the shadowed world offered him no gateway, and the other started to laugh.   
  


"There is no place to run, here. No place to run, nor to hide, nor to live... You are in a higher hell, boy. Welcome to the land of limbo--where those who cannot die or live remain for eternity. I think you should grow to know it--so why don't I leave you here?"   
  


Deor, seeing no way out, lunged at the other, in an attempt to destroy. But he ran into something smooth and cold, like glass, and backing away from it, found another surface of glass. He was trapped. And the other one was gone. But now, he could see--he could see through his eyes and feel his body. But he could no longer control it.   
  


The petals of flowers were crushed into the earth as Deor's body stood, the narrowed eyes looking down at Æðelfri's grave.   
  


"Appropriate," he said softly. Then he was silent, shifting through the memories of this boy--who he discovered was named Deor. The grave was that of his sister, which Deor apparently visited every year. Pathetically sweet, he thought. Acting as he does will be difficult...   
  


He tilted his head up to the night sky, sniffing the air, feeling as the night air gently tugged at his cloak and clothes. "Very different from Egypt," he muttered. "Colder, less harsh..." He studied the new language in his mind. It was strange as well, unlike anything he'd spoken before. But he would cope with this--even with behaving as nicely as this boy apparently did.   
  


"I suppose I should give myself a name, as I know his now..." He searched through Deor's vocabulary, looking for something suitable. One word stood out from the others, and he chose it, a smirk developing across his face. "Ecghete."   
  


.   
  


The comet, with its fearsome light and terrifying fire, was an omen of destruction to the English people who saw it. And true enough, almost as soon as it had left, ships were sighted near the Isle of Wight. Yet, these were not William's ships. They were not the ships of a man who was expected to attack. They were the ships of someone people had half forgotten.   
  


They were the ships of Tostig, brother of Harold, one-time Earl of Northumbria and favorite of Edward.   
  


Tostig had been a perfect young man that everyone liked and admired--even highly critical men. But upon becoming earl, something happened. Tostig became vicious, murderous, and tyrannical, until the people of Northumbria deposed him and ordered Edward to exile him. Even Harold could not support him, and Edward was forced to send him away.   
  


Now Tostig had returned, to reclaim England, with a handful of ships and only a few sailors. Perhaps he was crazy; perhaps he was not.   
  


But whatever the state of his mind might have been, his actions made sense to no one.   
  


********   
  


Dun dun duuuun! Cliffy! (pause) Wait... This whole thing is roller coaster of cliffies... Oh well. I like them. Anyway...   
  


Æðelfrið means "noble peace" (pronounced Athelfrith), and Tostig is pronounced "Tohsty", I believe. (No comments from the peanut gallery...) That brings me to an important point: pronunciation. I found out how Mouself says Cyneheard. And it's horribly wrong. The name is pronounced--believe it or not--KUN-**hay**-aird. (At least... I think that's right...) Deor is "dayor", not "deeor". Wulgar=wulfyar.   
  


I think those are the only really troublesome ones, but let me know, 'kay? And criticize... Mmmmm... Criticism... Yummmmmmmmy...   
  


Review Replies:   
  


Little_Child_of_the_West_Wind: Ssssssilver, gollum. We likes silver, gollum. And we likes Beowulf, gollum. We likes copying Tolkien... We likes many things. Goooollum.   
  


Tamara Raymond: Thanks a bunch for your criticism. Was this chapter better? I hope it was...   
  


Mouself: (confiscates your Deor, Bakura, and Ryano [don't own] plushies) (rescues Cyneheard)   
  


B/k: Oneoneoneoneneo!!!1111 GIVE CRITICISM! GIMMEEE!   
  


angelkohaku: Actually, that's what everyone said I needed... Figures that I hate describing things... -_-;;; As for Wulfgar and war-horses... You never know. He might not see one... Then again, he might. (Yes, that made a lot of sense...) And Flaed is very, very honored.   
  


Tuulikki: Kukukuku... Bow before me, mortals! Erm... I know what you mean about criticism. I either am too scared to criticize or else I go completely crazy and start criticizing everything. ("You moron! You used 'an' when you clearly wanted 'a'!") But couldn't you criticize the writing or something? Need it...need need neeeeeeeeeeeeeed. But I'm very glad Cyneheard is unforgettable.   
  


Silver Dragon Golden Dragon: You could always be a Saxon. Except for the fact that Saxons and Danes were enemies... Oh weeeeeeeeeeeeeeell...   
  


Kat: History is good. Learn history. Study actions of evil people. Learn from their mistakes and rule the world! (cackles)   
  


: Just curious... Are you the same anonymous person as before? ^^U Anyway... I was afraid of that... You can read the poem online, and you might want to, because it is probably returning. But thank you very much for the criticism.   
  


Kat: I don't want to put a list... Because that means I'm not writing it correctly, and if I'm not writing correctly, I'm not doing my job, and if I'm not doing my job, I'LL BE FIRED!  
  


And... Bee-keeping was a valid Anglo-Saxon occupation. 


	4. Penalty Game

**I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh! Shouldn't that be a little obvious by now? I don't own the title either… It's from a song. Called, obviously, "Simple and Clean". Finally remembered to disclaim that…**

**Sorry for the long wait… Road trip. A very worthwhile road trip (^^), but that is what caused the delay, for the most part. That and a change of betas… Welcome Tamara. No, I did not change betas on a whim—B/k was absent. -_-;;**

**Does anyone know how to center text? It's a bit confusing…**

********

"_Tostig,"_ said Cyneheard, incredulous. "_Tostig_ came back."

"Yes," said Brihtric. "He's been fighting for food from the coast. And you're stopping him."

_Interesting. We're all waiting for an attack from William's army, when Harold's brother decides to show and proceeds to try and take over the country,_ thought Cyneheard, securing his ax and sword.

Harold's preparations were still not ready—in particular, he was building a fleet—so the force he led was composed mainly of house-carls, all marching from London down through Kent, past Canterbury, and down to Sandwich, there to catch Tostig and punish him for the damages he had so far inflicted—and possibly send a small warning over to William.

They finally reached Sandwich. Harold asked for the whereabouts of Tostig, and the reply spread through the lines like wildfire:

"He left."

"He _what?"_

"He ran away when he heard us coming. Ha!"

"We marched all this way for nothing…"

With a bored and sheepish annoyance, the army of house-carls turned straight around and headed back to London.

Later Tostig decided to reappear in his old earldom of Northumbria, but there the two existing earls—Mokere and Edwin—drove him off. Almost  all of his sailors had deserted, and in twelve tiny fishing boats, he drifted off, the north wind driving him, and sought refuge in Scotland. It would not be the last of Tostig, but England was relieved of him for the time.

.

"It's too bad about Tostig," said Brihtric, watching Cyneheard savagely hack at a piece of wood with his _seax_. "But you don't have to act that way about it." He scooted a pawn two spaces forward. He had so far taken five moves in a row without Cyneheard noticing.

"Time—wasted—stupid—Tostig," snarled Cyneheard, who was in no mood to speak coherently.

"…Though, despite your attempts to deface that piece of wood forever, it's turning out well," the thegn noted, changing the subject.__

Cyneheard looked down, to see a rude carving of a dragon in his hands. "Uhn? –What do you mean, deface?"

"Don't tell me you were actually trying to _carve_ that…" said Brihtric, eyeing the gashes in the side of the dragon.

"Of course I was," snapped Cyneheard. "What else would I be doing with it?" Before Brihtric could reply, he added, "I think I'll give it to Cynewulf."

"Fine. Now…It's your turn," said Brihtric.

"Why have you moved five pieces?"

"Erm…"

"_Brihtric…_" 

"…Look, Cynewulf! Why don't you give him your present…And…I'll be going!" ended Brihtric, leaving.

"Present?" asked Cynewulf, curious. Cyneheard's face relaxed, and he handed Cynewulf the funny little dragon, which the boy regarded eagerly, despite the fact that one wing was nearly hacked off. Cyneheard noted this.

_Funny… You'd think that it was a dragon _before_ I carved it…_

His brother ran off, laughing. The house-carl, tired, slumped onto his chair, and fingered the black knight he had been going to move. He was beginning to tire of chess… Perhaps draughts would be better to take up.

The piece of wood, dropped onto the board, knocked the white king off and then fell noisily onto the floor, as the house-carl left to follow Cynewulf, and perhaps get outside.

A careless thegn, entering the room, trod on them both, splintering them beyond recognition. The pieces disappeared into the woodwork, and as Cyneheard did not play chess again, their absence was not noted.

********

Deor stamped on the dirt beneath his foot, preparing to cast it on a swarm of bees, calling out the correct phrase for laying his claim. As almost no one else in Horstede had bees, this was somewhat pointless, but there was no point in risking the loss of bees, and of honey, propolis, and beeswax. Then he said, tossing the earth over the bees,

_Stay, victorious women, sink to earth!_

_Never fly wild to the wood._

_Be as mindful of my good_

_as each man is of food and home._

The swarm fell as the gritty earth hit it, and then Deor, retiring to a safe distance, watched to make sure that they did not leave. Bees had been good this June, and he watched as they settled near his home. That was good, though he wished it had taken longer. Someone had been waiting for that in the back of his mind.

_Goodbye,_ it murmured.

Ecghete straightened slowly, giving the bees a wary eye and walking as far as he could from them. Unfortunately, walking away from the bees meant walking into the girl he could identify as someone in Deor's mind. What her name was, he could not tell.

"Deor!" she said, surprised. "I thought you'd be working with the swarm that just came…"

"I did," Ecghete quickly replied, attempting to fix a grin onto his face. "They were a very well behaved swarm, so I left them to build their nest and…um…find father," he ended weakly.

"I thought your father was in your house," she said, puzzled. "Deor…"

"Oh! Right! In the house—foolish me," he added, "so forgetful…"

The girl was not convinced. She started to interrogate him.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine!"

"Is your father all right?"

"Yes!"

"Are you becoming ill? Your voice is getting hoarse…"

"Nononono—I've just—been—talking to the bees."

From Deor's prison, Ecghete could swear he heard hysterical laughing. The boy would learn his mistake soon enough. Right now, the problem was getting past this…female.

"You've been talking to the bees."

"Exactly!"

"…You know, Deor, if there's a problem, just tell me. Honestly. The _bees_?"

"Um… I think I hear my father calling," stated Ecghete, tearing off for the woodland, leaving an extremely confused Ælfwynn behind him. Distractedly, she muttered,

"But your house is _that_ way…"

********

Robert was tired, but content. Tomorrow, he and Stephen—and others—would be leaving for the coast, and wait for favorable winds. But tonight, he would finish the puzzle. Surprisingly, he was making progress on it. With a great yawn, he fitted another piece in.

"There…" he muttered sleepily, fingering the large piece—the one with an eye on it. "This is the last piece…maybe I'll put it in…after I sleep a little…"

He reached out, still yawning heavily, to insert the last piece, but fell asleep. The eye had almost fallen into its slot, but it needed a small push…which it received.

"See? Even knights have to sleep," said the small lisping thief. "You need to get over this fear of knights."

They both stepped out of hiding and looked around, and then the gruffer one saw the glinting golden heap. With a smirk—albeit a slightly nervous one—he reached out for it, and ended up bumping the hand, causing the last piece to slip in place, Robert's hand now covering a good deal of it.

The gruff thief sprang backwards, and started to whisper angrily at the lisping one. "What now, oh great one? How are we going to get it out from under his hand _now_?"

His partner made no answer except to point dumbly behind, mouthing something. With a snort, the other turned to see that the puzzle was glowing brightly, and the knight was moving. But it did not seem to be the same knight that had gone to sleep. The two red-purple eyes that turned to them were not stable. The grin was not sane.

They bolted and ran, but ended up going nowhere. With a frown, the crazy Robert stood, puzzle swinging on his neck, and announced,

"Penalty game."

*********

"Be quiet," muttered Stephen, clenching his forehead. "Just—be—quiet."

Eleanor, his sister, frowned. "All I said was—"

"I said, _be quiet!_" growled her brother. "I don't need to see anyone before I go to war, least of all him—or our beloved father," he added, disdainfully. "Nor do I need to see _you._"

She looked down at him, worried. "Stephen… I'm just worried about you." Quietly, she stretched out her hand. "I'm sorry that—"

He turned to her, still angry but quieter. "I know you're sorry. And…just leave, Eleanor. I'll be all right."

She left, looking back at him. He was staring at the wall, as though trying to find something in it. She bowed her head and walked away, leaving him still staring, his head now resting in his hand.

He fell asleep that way—and dreamed. This time the dream was different. This time, he could run, but ran the wrong way, and fell headlong into flames. He woke, as dreamers always do, just before he died. It was a cool, quiet night, dark and comforting.

He looked out the window and listened for something living. But the only thing he heard, after he slept again and woke for the last time that night, was the faint chanting in Latin, of Vespers.

That morning he left, with Robert, to go to England. Eleanor watched after him and then quietly walked to the family chapel, fingering her rosary. But Stephen never looked back to see her.

_It's natural,_ she thought, softly kneeling. _He wanted to be a scholar… He wanted to learn, and he had to fight. Of course he'd hate people who could learn. I understand, I think…_

_But why does he hate even those who can't?_

********

Ecghete now knew the forests quite well, memorizing hiding places and good ambush locations. He stood now before his favorite hiding place, a hidden crevasse between two stones. It reminded him of a tomb, and he liked tombs.

"Good," he said, slipping between the rocks and crouching in the cool, damp place between. "Now, when Atemu comes, I'll be ready for him. Atemu will come…" he said in a half whisper, playing with the Ring, and watching the individual tassels ring and spin. "You'll draw him here, you'll bring him here, and then we'll kill him, won't we?" Bright brown eyes followed every movement the Ring made. "Yes…we'll kill him…"

A low, but growing laughter started, echoing through the forest. No one heard it but a frightened fox and the spirit of a boy fighting for his own body—and perhaps the newly awakened spirit in Robert, who, returning to his Puzzle, stirred as if he had received a challenge.

Eventually the laughter stopped, and Deor, shaken and tired, stumbled out from the rocks and made his way home. For a moment, the idea of simply not going home occurred to him, so as to keep Horstede safe, but the only thing that kept Ecghete from causing too much damage was the need to keep up a front.

He had reached the village boundary when the spirit, visible only to Deor, lifted his head and sniffed the air, turning to his host. "Do you smell that?"

"No," said Deor.

"I smell blood," murmured Ecghete. "And feeders on blood…"

A slow grin spread across his face, as he smelt the air and disappeared back into the Ring. Weaving in her home, Ælfwynn looked out to see Deor tiredly make his way to his cottage, looking ready to fall apart. Her shuttle fell onto the floor, dirtying the wool, as she looked after him and worried.

********

_The grey eagle's keen claws, O King, you dyed in blood,_

_The wolf was always fed before you went homeward,_ sang the Norseman of Harald Hardrada. He was the king of Norway, who rejoiced in bloodshed, in senseless brutality and death. A true beserker, he was glorified and uplifted. He had been everywhere—Byzantium, Russia, Africa—and had a brutal anecdote for all. There was the kidnapping of Maria, the niece of the Byzantine Empress, or the staged funeral, or the time he had set a village afire with a great host of small birds.

Yet Harald Hardrada was bored.

For fifteen years, he had fought against Denmark and their upstart king, Swein. It was a kingdom that rightfully should have been his. And two years ago, the war had ended—but not the way it should have, with Swein dying slowly and Harald king over a crushed and broken Denmark. It ended with Harold losing, Swein very much alive, and then two long, tedious years in which there was no one to fight but his own country.

He was not just bored—he felt as though he was slowly decaying.

And that was when Tostig came, to ask him to conquer England, with a promise that he would arrange for the earls to betray Harold and to support Harald. It was the promise of a maniac; there was no one in England to help Tostig. But Harald, itching to fight, believed him.

That September, they would attack England.

********

It was a lazy August day at Pevensy, and the _fyrd_ was still waiting. Wulfgar tossed the pebble into the air, then caught it. It was just about the only thing he had to do, so he threw it again. Catch, throw. Catch, throw. Catch, throw—

"Would you stop that?" asked Aldwulf. "Why don't you play draughts, or something?"

"Because I don't want to," said Wulfgar, tossing the pebble back up.

"You've got to have something better to do…"

"No, I don't…"

Aldwulf snatched the pebble out the air, glaring at his comrade, who was desperately trying to retrieve it from him.

"What the point of being here if all we do is throw a rock into the air?"

"We're hear to watch for ships. Give me back my pebble."

"No. Look; the _fyrd_ is supposed to stay for two months. We've been here far longer. There's no _point_ in us being here any more. They aren't coming."

Wulfgar gave up getting the stone back. "Because they could still come."

"Please—"

There was a cough, and both turned to see Cyneheard, looking at them with utter scorn. Behind Cyneheard stood a smiling boy, with wild dark hair, who waved at them. And beside him stood an older man, with yellow hair that was starting to grey. Wulfgar and Aldwulf both stared at them cluelessly.

"You're going home," barked Cyneheard.

"…"

"So pack up, and we'll be taking you back. I assume you'll have plenty of work to do—winter is coming on, after all."

Aldwulf shot off to pack, humming music. _I hope that annoying boy hasn't been skulking around Wærthryth while I'm gone,_ he thought. _Though Wulfgar won't tell me who this person is. All I know is that whenever _I'm _around her, he starts looking all nervous and coughs. There's got to be someone lurking that I can't see…_

Wulfgar was still staring at Cyneheard. "We're _leaving?_"

"Yes," said Cyneheard. "You're leaving. The threat is over. No one's going to attack us now. Go home and farm; you aren't needed anymore."

"That _it?"_ screamed Wulfgar. "We didn't do anything!"

"Be glad you didn't," replied Cyneheard. "Now…"

"I'm not leaving," said Wulfgar. "I'm not leaving until no ships are sailing _anywhere._"

Cyneheard was beginning to restrain the urge to hit Wulfgar in the face when the five became aware of the presence of a sixth man; a short man with chestnut hair and an equally dark moustache, regarding them with warm, dark eyes. "Let them stay, Cyneheard."

"My—"

"It won't lay all of the surrounding villages to ruin if two boys stay on a few more weeks. Let them stay…" He turned to Wulfgar. "Though you may wish to show more respect for rank in the future; a rebellious attitude is no good in any army."

With that he left.

"Who was that?" asked Aldwulf, disappointed. He could not now go home without looking inferior in the brown eyes of Wærthryth.

"You don't know?" asked Cyneheard, disgustedly.

"No…"

"It was Harold," muttered Cyneheard. "Here you live, in a place _owned by him,_ and you don't know what he _looks_ like…" With that he turned heel and left, the little boy trailing at his heels, waving good-bye to them.

"H…h…h…h…h…h…"

"Thank you, Wulfgar," muttered Aldwulf. "Now I really can't go back…"

"H…h…h…h…h…"

"Will you stop that?"

"H…h…h…h…h…"

********

…Meh. I'm feeling very dissatisfied with the story, suddenly. Which is a bad, bad thing when you're entering it in something. Oh well… Harald is very much historical. I hope the two—Harold and Harald—don't get too confusing, though in the books I've read they aren't, so… (shrug)

**Evil Bakura had his little Gollum moment. Back away slowly…**

**Replies:**

**angelkohaku: Ya want to know what has a freakishly demonic grin? This Strawberry Shortcake doll they advertise on television. Actually, it's her younger sister, "Apple Dumpling" (don't ask me why I know all this), but the point is that they are both frightening. And have demonic grins. That actually look a lot like Evil Bakura's… Only more so… ^^;;**

**Little_Child_of_the_West_Wind: My friend vows that Ryou Bakura and Evil Bakura are both Gollum clones… (Well, Bakura's Smeagol and Evil Bakura's Gollum…) ^^ The poem is very good… I'm just way too lazy to review it… But now you know! ^^**

**Tuulikki: Ecghete means "fierce/deadly/violent/sharp anger". Plus, it looks cool. I tried to cut back on the history here…which was hard. But I'm not here to write Harald's biography, I'm here to write about 1066… (chants this to self) And thou art excused. ^__^**

**Mouself: (twitchs) Typo… (starts to go beserk) Typooo… Egg head? -.-**

**Flaming Tigress Mage: There's one other that I know of… Actually, two. Ori is entered the historical category as well… ^^;; (is swamped by information) Information overload… @_@;; Ooh, Tamara won't be happy… You used the salami! (gasp)**

**: A heck of a lot. Harold was innocent of every single charge laid against him—this is not my bias, it's fact—except for the oath. The oath… Now, that's an interesting happening. Nobody actually knows what happened, though it did take place… I'm sorry if that was confusing, though. I deleted the parts where the narrator pointed out the falseness, perhaps I should have left that in…**

Seeky L.H. Wolf: I'm a Saxon geek… Not a Norman geek! Look at Tuulikki's review for the meaning of the name. ^^U

Chibi Kita: Couldn't you write it down, or something…? Because if you honestly can't tell… Then this whole thing is a failure.


	5. Fires at Scarborough

**All right. I'm sick of writing disclaimers. If the lawyers _want_ a disclaimer, they can write one. However... (wince) I did want to apologize for the heinous error in the last chapter. Vespers takes place at six in the evening—what I wanted was Matins, the morning service.**

**FYI: There are several historical/poetical/cultural references in this chapter you may or may not catch. So you might want to read the note at the bottom before the story, or you may not—it is your choice.**

* * *

The castle was drafty, despite the heavy, dense tapestries on the walls. It was customary for Eleanor and her father to sit as close as possible to the fire until they retired, and so they were engaged.

"It's been a month," said Eleanor, to no one in particular. She was embroidering a mantle, and glared at the slip-shod stitches that had resulted from her worries.

"He hasn't left Normandy yet," grunted her father. "All he's doing is sitting about, eating, drinking, spending _my_ gold..."

"Yes," she interrupted, acknowledging his presence. "But...shouldn't he be coming home? A month is a month—the Duke surely must know there's no chance of getting to England this year."

"The Duke knows what the Duke wants to know. If the Duke wants to sail to England, then he will sail to England if he doesn't get the proper wind until January."

Eleanor stabbed at the embroidery. If she was to send this to Stephen, it would need to be at least _decent._ Though she hoped that the Duke might not be so stubborn as her father claimed, and she'd see Stephen before winter set in. To her father, she said,

"But won't he run out of supplies?" she asked.

Her father did not deign to answer.

* * *

Eleanor and her father were mistaken: it hadn't been a month. It was a week short of a month—and the army was beginning to feel very cynical about the flags that had blown southwards for two solid weeks. A very strong sentiment of angering Heaven was running through the camp—and if Heaven was indeed angry, it was probably because of people like Alain.

"We're laying bets," said Alain professionally, smiling at Robert and Stephen. "Care to join us?"

"Oh, _please,"_ muttered Stephen. "This situation is bad enough without your... Your... _Usury,"_ he managed. Alain raised a corrective finger.

"Usury," he reprimanded, "is charging things at _interest._ Am I charging at interest? No. I am merely offering the chance to invest money and sporting blood. Will the flags blow south? Or will they allow us to undertake our most holy war against England? It's a battle of wits, a battle of skill—"

"It takes no skill whatsoever. Or wits."

Robert flopped onto the ground and waited for them to finish arguing. He reminded himself that the blatant inactivity was annoying all the soldiers—allowance, he thought, must be made for their nerves. Robert amused himself by spinning his puzzle around in a circle. Around and around and around, until the puzzle made a blurred golden circle in the air.

_There were eyes in the circle, staring out..._

Robert nearly dropped his puzzle in surprise, and looked again. Nothing—it must have been his reflection.

* * *

The woods were quiet, and the rabbit foolishly decided it was safe. Poking its head from the safety of the underbrush, it heard a furious, sharp cry—

King Harold's favorite hunting hawk was stooping from the sky. The rabbit, who was regrettably a very stupid rabbit, immediately ran away from the bushes and into the open forest. The hawk fell upon it without mercy and bore the rabbit, squeaking indignantly, into the sky.

King Harold received the dead animal and rewarded the hawk with meat, then sent it back into the sky. He loved hunting—especially hunting at Boseham, his home. And in a week, he would be leaving Boseham for London. He had finally sent the two boys away, back to their homes.

The hawk shot up again, into the sky. This time the prey was another bird—again delivered to Harold, for which the hawk was rewarded. Eventually members of the hunting group departed, and it came down to four: Harold; his brothers, Gyrth and Leofwine; and the almost invisible Cyneheard watching from a distance.

"...home?" Gyrth was asking. Harold stroked the hawk, and nodded.

"Yes. We need to prepare for London—and for the spring," he added, quietly. Leofwine laughed.

"The spring? Come on, Harold, it's only September..."

They turned their horses around, Cyneheard still following invisibly. Harold paused, apparently to look for any dead game accidently dropped in the forest. If Gyrth and Leofwine noticed, they did not pause in returning. But the house-carl stopped—it was his job.

Harold suddenly and almost violently sent the hawk into the air, and then turned his horse, for the last time, towards home. Cyneheard was not looking at the horse or Harold, but at Harold's hand, and the small pieces of leather dangling from it. Under his breath, Harold was chanting,

_"....Þa þæt Offan mæg ærest onfunde,_

_þæt se eorl nolde yrhðo geþolian,_

_he let him þa of handon leofne fleogan_

_hafoc wið þæs holtes, and to hilde stop..."_

* * *

Scarborough was unimportant, quiet, and almost forgotten. If ever there was a town made to be that way, it was Scarborough, the Northumbrian fishing village. By it there was a very steep hill, and the people beneath the hill moved sleepily and contentedly through the dark night.

Yet this night wasn't very dark—in fact, it was growing lighter. A man looked up and stared at the fire on the tall hill that towered above them. It grew greater and greater—and then it hopped. Or lurched, perhaps, but at any rate, it moved near to the edge of hill.

The man looked dumbly at the moving fire, and through the fire saw dimly forms of men—strange men, dressed like the English and yet not; wilder, less comfortable. And he realized that the fire was not hopping, was not lurching, but that the fire was being pushed. Before the man could scream, it all came down—flaring wood and ash hurtling towards his upturned face—crazy laughter falling with it.

Harald had arrived.

* * *

"King Harold," snapped Cyneheard, "is not to be disturbed."

"It's urgent," said the fidgeting messenger. "Very urgent."

"He's _ill_," growled Cyneheard. "In case you didn't have the brains to take note of that fact, King Harold has been lying down in pain ever since we arrived in London. That would be three days—you're from Northumbria, aren't you?"

"Y-es," answered the messenger.

"Then take it to Morkere. It's _his_ problem. Not Harold's."

"We did," the messenger replied, "but they were...disinclined to help," he finished lamely. "Please, let me talk to the king..."

Cyneheard finally let the other through, then resumed his post. He glared murderously at everyone that came by, daring them to come near the door. _Just try it,_ he thought, leaning against the wall. _Just try to get through._

The messenger reappeared, and ran away from Cyneheard like a frightened rabbit. The house-carl hesitated, then went into Harold's room. The king was up and apparently getting ready to set out yet again.

"King Harold?"

"Ever heard of Scarborough?" asked Harold, looking over at Cyneheard. At the shake he received, the king continued, "It's a fishing village. Was a fishing village—the entire place was just burned."

"The Danes," said Cyneheard, automatically.

"The Danes" was a phrase powerful enough to bring kings to a halt, to freeze soldiers in their tracks, to send villages into chaos. A hundred years of peace would never erase the memory of the Danes, and everything that they had destroyed. No one had forgotten the humiliation of Aethelney, nor did anyone forget that England had swung by one thread...the thread of a dissolute, irresponsible young man called Ælfræd...

"Harald Hardrada," corrected Harold. "Of Norway—spread the order to _march_, Cyneheard. I don't want any delay..." He paused. "Your young friends will be sad to miss this, won't they?"

_My young...my young...oh,_ thought Cyneheard. "The two would have died, anyway," he said flatly, attempting to look sympathetic to the plight of his "young friends". But after he had left the room, he could have sworn he heard Harold laughing.

The first house-carl he found was older than Cyneheard, and happened to owe him money. Cyneheard started to smirk—this was going to be _fun._

"Cyneheard! Yes, Cyneheard—I wanted to ask you—"

"Get ready to march," barked Cyneheard. "Now. We're going to Northumbria."

Cyneheard had a moment of pure satisfaction at the look of bewilderment, dawning horror, and then finally of nervous confusion that passed over the other house-carl's face. It would, Cyneheard thought wistfully, be a very long time before he was able to see something such as that again.

"We're going...to march?" croaked the house-carl. "Where are we going?"

"Northumbria," stated Cyneheard.

"..._Northumbria?_"

"Spread the news," continued Cyneheard. "There is to be no delay."

He continued towards the next house-carl, leaving the first staring after him, thinking about the long, long road to Northumbria.

* * *

In the history of England (nay, of the world) there are many brave men, who fought furiously against all odds to keep their people safe—the young man named Ælfræd, Edmund, Thegn Byrhtnoth—all men who would do anything to keep their people from harm, even if it meant dying or hiding in swampland. But the brothers Edwin (Earl of Mercia) and Morkere (Earl of Northumbria) were not among that number during 1066, and from all appearances, they would not have reached it by 1266.

"Danes," Morkere was saying. He looked nervously at sheep, as if it concealed Danes.

"Baaaaaa," muttered the sheep, looking for somewhere else to graze.

"Danes..." repeated Morkere. "Why, oh _why_ did they have to come _now?_ I'd just gotten over the William scare, and now these _Danes_ are coming. I can't handle Danes!"

Edwin ignored him. It wasn't as if the Danes were in his earldom, anyway. He was just here because Morkere insisted he come. Pfff. Where was Harold? This was his job, anyway, not insisting that the big scary William was coming with big scary horses. And what was England coming to, he asked himself patriotically, if the kings didn't do their _job?_

"And the townsfolk," Morkere continued to whine, "aren't any comfort at _all._ They just look at me and say things like 'Do your duty, Morkere'. Why should it be _my_ duty? Why can't we just pay the Danes to leave like we did before?"

_Must...ignore...younger...brother..._ Edwin chanted to himself.

The army behind him was doing much the same thing—actually, it was barely an army. It consisted mainly of farmers who had been dragged off by the two earls to fight The Danes, and most of them were terrified. They had no false hopes of Edwin or Morkere turning suddenly into a Byrhtnoth who would stand by them until death.

In a short time, the farmland started to turn to marsh, and eventually the army came face to face with The Danes. The imaginations of Edwin, Morkere, and the soldiers had prepared them for what the foreigners would look like. Nothing had prepared them for the man with the foreigners.

Tostig looked scornfully at the little army of Northumbria—made up mainly of people he had known. But he couldn't quite place their names...it didn't matter, though. They were all traitors. But he knew Morkere—he would know Morkere if Morkere had been burnt to a charred, twisted lump. Morkere had taken _Tostig's_ earldom.

With a scream of fury, he attacked—and the tiny band of English farmers was slaughtered by the Raven of Norway. A few escaped (not surprisingly, Edwin and Morkere were among them), but most had not. It was a complete victory over Northumbria—York surrendered without a fight, and in a few days, five hundred hostages would be given up to the Norsemen at Stamford Bridge.

But Harald made a mistake—he left York. And after he had left York, a different Harold, three thousand house-carls strong, (plus the few odd farmers that had join the march) rode into the city. They had made it to York—two hundred odd miles—in five days.

"People of York!" rang the voice of the king. He gazed at the people before him—tired, hurt, and afraid. He could also see his army—slightly uneasy, but full of bravado and recklessness. The people appeared not to hear him, so he called out again:

"People of York!" The call rang around the church where the people were gathered, ricocheting from the ceiling to the floor and up again to the windows, echoing over and over again: "of York... York... York..."

They looked up at him, and listened.

"I will not hide the truth from you," Harold continued. "The enemy we face is an old and dangerous one, but an enemy that we have always conquered! We shall not, and we shall never, give into the power of a heathen Danish warlord. We shall never give five hundred men to him without exacting their price in blood. We will not bow our heads to the banner of the Raven—the Golden Dragon shall rise before the Raven and send it back to the graveyard, as it always has.

"But I cannot fight the enemy alone. You, people of York, you have lain long under Danish power, and now that you are free, a new overlord rises up to enslave you. Stand up and fight him—fight Harald Hardrada and his men, fight for your homes and your lives and your children. Fight against the man named Tostig who has twice betrayed you. Fight to show that, whatever your Earl may be, the men of Northumbria are not cowards! Remember who you are—remember the men who have died for this before you."

He looked out at the crowd, which was still staring at him, intent—and silent. There was a taut pause, and Harold felt he had lost York.

He was never sure who started it—whether it was one of his house-carls trying to help him or one of the frightened men who was tired of being frightened, but someone near the back of the cathedral yelled;

"Holy Cross!"

Someone else took it up.

"Holy Cross!"

Half the building was chanting "Holy Cross", and Harold stood bewildered as a flood of pent-up anger at Harald, at Morkere, at Tostig, and above all at themselves, burst out in the furious chanting of the English battle cry;

"_Holy Cross! Holy Cross!_"

"For England!"

"_Holy Cross! Holy Cross!_"

"For Northumbria!"

"_Holy Cross! Holy Cross!_"

"For York!"

"_Holy Cross! Holy Cross!_"

"For this very church!"

"_Holy Cross! Holy Cross! HOLY CROSS!_"

.

"Are you certain?" Harold asked, frowning. The encouraging of the people of York being done, he was now talking to some of the more influential people within the city.

The man from York nodded. "He was not a good earl—with all due respect, of course. But he was a better one than Morkere."

"Tostig," Harold said, slowly, "will probably refuse your offer. And there will be Harald to be rid of...there's going to be death, no matter what you do."

"Yes, your Grace," the other responded. "But we _can't_ have Morkere any longer."

"I'll have him told," Harold said. "But now I need to leave for Stamford Bridge. Godspeed."

"Godspeed," responded the man from York. Three thousand house-carls, mounted on their ponies, trotted off to Stamford Bridge, alongside farmers and townsfolk. On the coast, Harald and his men set off to claim the five hundred hostages. The Norsemen arrived first, and then the glitter of steel told Harald and Tostig that England would not give up Northumbria easily.

The armies drew up before each other, and a short, brown-haired man rode out on a pony, and asked to speak to the Earl Tostig.

* * *

**The Anglo-Saxon phrase for "goodbye" is _god þe mid sie_, which literally translates to something like "God be with thee". Godspeed caries the same connotation, and since it is short than "God be with thee", and Harold probably would have been speaking quickly, I used it.**

**The poetry that Harold recites is from the Anglo-Saxon poem "The Battle of Maldon" (sound familiar?), and according to the translation by Michael Alexander, in modern English it would run something like this:**

****

**_…Whereat one of Offa's kin, knowing the Earl  
Would not suffer slack-heartedness,  
loosed from his wrist his loved hawk;  
over the wood it stooped: he stepped to battle_****…**

**Ælfræd is Alfred is modern English—Alfred the Great, that is. The story of Alfred is very long, very important, and happens to be one of the best in history. So I can't repeat it here; however, there are many websites out there.**

**Edmund was an English general. Byrhtnoth is the Earl mentioned above, and the hero of "The Battle of Maldon".**

**The Golden Dragon was the banner of England; the Raven was the banner of the Norsemen. (Note: while Harald Hardrada was from Norway, he would have been _called_ a Dane, so Harold refers to him as a Dane through most of the text.)**

**When Morkere mentions paying the Danes off, he's talking about Danegeld—the practice of paying the Danes to leave the English alone. It didn't work, but it did produce a great poem by Ruyard Kipling.**

**As that's all the Cultural-Historical-Poetical references I can remember, I'll just thank my beta and get on with the replies. Geez, this a long A/N…**

**LittleChildOfTheWestWind: Okay. Writing…writing…**

**Chibi Kita: Cyneheard and Cynewulf; the loving brother who are named after people who tried to kill each other. Bwahaha.**

**Tuulikki: Comedy's good—and I won't tell him that. I want you to live, too. Anyway, I hope this chapter worked as well… And that using this new "Quick Edit" device will allow centering of text. And that story…is quite fluffy. (grin) Now, to review it… And, yesh, that should be Harald... (feels a bit foolish)**

**B/k: …Gollum _can._ [Note: if this makes absolutely no sense to you, it is because you are not B/k. If you _are_ B/k and it makes no sense, well…we have a problem.]**

**Tamara Raymond: Thanks!**

**Flaming Tigress Mage: Mkay. (marks this down) I don't know if the wyvern would fit with the plot, though… Well, ve shall see…**

**Silver Dragon Golden Dragon: Thanks! (It's said Edg-hay-tay, I believe. Annoyingly, right after naming him I discovered a name that means "thief of darkness" or something like that… (sweatdrop)**

**Angelkohaku: Kaiba brothers fluff… Well, that will come in. Later, though—but thank you for your honesty! (grin) It made me feel better, oddly…**

**Meat Locker: Because.**

**Unrealistic: Ecghete may _try_ to interfere, but when no one will allow your host into the army, it's going to be hard. (grin) I'm really glad you liked it so far, and I hope this chapter worked out well.**

**Kiita: Drawing is certainly healthier for the characters. Though…breaking the bones of a house-carl might be hard, what with the chain mail and all. (grin…without emoticons, typing "grin" over and over again starts to wear off)**


	6. Stamford Bridge

**William the Conqueror had an extremely short son named Robert. I assure you that is entirely a coincidence.**

——

To move to an earlier time and another place, William was having difficulties. The army of Normandy could do many things.

Sailing was _not_ one of them.

Exactly a month after they had arrived at the River Dives, the wind had finally blown the proper direction. The soldiers had run for the boats, piled in, exited triumphantly—

—and the wind started to blow west, as the horizon suddenly grew dark.

The storm might have been horrible or mild, but when no one can sail, there's very little difference. Men were frantically praying—screams of horses ripped through the night—men on board slipped on the wet deck and clutched at anything, everything they could see.

"We're going to die," muttered Stephen, as he went flying off and hit someone in the stomach.

"Don't—be—ridiculous," Alain said. "Just—a little—rough weather—"

A large amount of water hit him in the face, pushing him into Robert. Stephen slowly started to crawl towards them over the deck's surface. It struck him suddenly how easy it would be to kill someone, here. Just a little shove—no one would notice, everyone would think it was an accident—

He hated Alain.

He hated his smug, stupid face; his assured voice; his self-confident air; his disrespect for everything…

Just a little shove.

No one would ever know…

_No,_ he snapped, feeling suddenly angry—and frightened.

Those weren't his thoughts: those were the thoughts of his dreams…

  


The boat tilted, and he slid backwards, hitting the same person in the stomach again. Receiving his own face-full of water, he was completely jerked away from murder. At that moment, he was too concerned with keeping his own life.

.

13th of September.

The men sat, shivering, at the harbor of St. Valery, frightened and tired. The Channel, apparently having had its joke, did nothing unusual.

"That was…" Robert searched for the right word. Frightening, yes, but that wasn't what he wanted.

_Unexpected?_ queried a voice in his head.

_No,_ thought Robert.

_Overwhelming?_ came the voice again.

_Hm… Yes…_

"Overwhelming," he finished, to discover that no one had been paying any attention to him. The short knight sighed, and ambled after his friends—who were, as usual, biting each other's heads off.

It never occurred to him to wonder who, exactly, had been talking.

——

The short man and Tostig looked at each for a moment without speaking. The twenty house-carls who were guarding the man were too busy glaring at the enemy, and enemy too busy glaring back, for anyone else to notice this.

"Your brother sends you greetings," said the short man, in English. The speech interrupted the glaring contest, and the house-carls had a glorious moment of flaunting the fact that _they _understood English and that the Danes did _not,_ before the short man continued.

"He offers you peace and all of Northumbria."

The house-carls suddenly transferred all of their attention to the short man. The Danes understood this meant something Undesirable was happening, and jeered accordingly.

"…a third of the kingdom," the short man concluded, paying no heed to house-carls or Danes.

  


Tostig responded sharply, angrily. "That is different," he hissed, "from the trouble and shame of last winter."

_More of an annoyance,_ thought Cyneheard, who was in the front row of house-carls. _Shameful, perhaps, that we didn't _kill _you, but everyone makes a mistake…_

"If I had had this offer _then_, many a man who is dead _now_ would have been alive, and England would have been a better place," concluded Tostig righteously.

Cyneheard had a look of pure derision on his face—Tostig noticed this, and raised his voice, becoming shrill and quite angry.

"If I accept, what will my brother offer King Harald Hardrada for his work?"

For the first time, the short man smiled—or smirked. "He said something about that too…" He paused, as if recalling something only half-heard. "Something about six feet of English earth—or," he added, "a bit more as he is such a big man."

_Far too big for his horse,_ Cyneheard added silently. (As the short man had been preparing to speak to Tostig, Harald had fallen off of a little English mount.) _It must be crumbling beneath that weight…_

Tostig flushed, and then recovered whatever remained of his composure. His answer was flung defiantly at the short man's face. "Then go tell King Harold to be ready for battle…"

Cyneheard listened as Tostig continued. _The fool—he's been offered honor and power enough, and he's about to die for refusing it. We can't lose to the Danes._

The short man nodded as Tostig finished, then turned his horse back to the main body of the English army. The house-carls followed accordingly.

"Who was that man?" asked Harald, as the twenty house-carls melted into the army.

"Harold," answered Tostig.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Harald snapped. "He would never have escaped."

"I would rather he was my killer," replied Tostig, abruptly calm and collected, "than I his."

"Quite a small man," said Harald. Then he remembered he was speaking to the small man's brother, and hastily added, "But he stood well in his stirrups."

  


Tostig made no reply—the English army dismounted—the armor-less Danes prepared themselves—

English and Danish armies smashed into each other, in a whirlwind of quiet, bloody chaos. Axes smashed open skulls and spears jutted out from chests—swords glistened, red and beautiful, in the light of a beautiful September afternoon.

Smash—hack—stab—the money-owing house-carl fell, but took his killer down with him.

The English farmers and the people of York swarmed over the Danes, centuries of hatred giving power to men unsuited for battle.

Men slipped and were crushed.

Men stood strong and were split open.

_Drive them to the Bridge_, the English army told itself.

The Danes wavered, fell back, and retreated to the bridge—all but one went over it. Berserkers are not known for their skills at moving backwards, and only a berserker would have stayed on that bridge.

A few English charged at him—only a few would fit on the bridge.

_Swish._

A few English fell dead; slit by a battle-ax.

Again some ran to kill—and again, they were killed.

The crazy picture of the English army defeated by one man danced through Cyneheard's head. That could not happen—he refused to let it.

Now the English wavered, frightened of this demon-man, who would not acknowledge his wounds or fatigue, who would stand on the bridge forever and slash open everyone who approached him. Cyneheard could hear the mental sneering of the Danes—these English, the Danes said, they talk well, but when up against someone who is a real fighter, they are worth nothing—or about as much, perhaps, as that barrel in the water…

_Barrel._

_Barrels,_ thought Cyneheard. _They float and carry things. I wonder…_

Automatically, he started to add up the weight of the armor and weapons in his mind. If he dropped all the weapons but one—if he dropped his helmet—

The barrel drew closer to the bridge. It was a big barrel, too…probably big enough for, say, a house-carl…

_You'll sink and drown and be a fool,_ snapped the part of him not swept away by the battle, not completely entranced by the miraculous barrel. That part of his mind was left behind with the discarded battle-ax and helmet. With his mail and his sword, Cyneheard stalked the barrel—aimed for his prey—leapt—

He hit the barrel with an overpowering _wham!_ which caused heaven and earth to tremble, and the waters to rip asunder. With his mail screeching like a banshee, he crouched in the loudly creaking barrel. There was no possibility, he thought, of anyone putting these noises down to wind.****

(The Danes and the English wondered briefly why there was a faint creaking noise, then put it down to the bridge.)****

The barrel bobbed along, going more slowly now because of the added weight. The bridge grew nearer—nearer—

_Strike._

Cyneheard stabbed upwards, rearing up from the barrel. The berserker fell, gutted—and the barrel gave way, sending Cyneheard into the waters of the river along with the corpse of the berserker. The chain mail he wore became a new enemy—sinking him to the bottom and hungrily waiting for him to die.

As he struggled to keep afloat, Cyneheard wondered vaguely how Cynewulf would take the news of his death. Perhaps, he thought, sinking, Cynewulf would become a monk. If so, it was truly a pity…

_Someone was dragging him onto the shore…_

_Someone was ordering him to wake up…_

_Someone would not let him go to sleep again…_

——

"Good morning," said Brihtric, cheerfully. Cyneheard contemplated biting him.

"Nnnnumff," he managed.

"Yes, I know," Brihtric. "You're a hero now. Soldiers who absolutely despised you before are currently telling everyone what a good friend you are."

"Nnnnga?" inquired Cyneheard sharply, while attempting to force his mouth to function.

"You're going to _hate _being loved."

"Nnk…"

"Exactly."

Cyneheard found his tongue.

"Brihtric," he croaked.

  


"Yes?"

"Go die."

"And leave Cynewulf by himself here? Never."

"Cynewulf?" asked Cyneheard.

"Yes."

"He's here?"

"No—"

"_Brihtric…_"

"—he's coming," finished Brihtric, hastily. "I think I'll inform everyone that you are as always…"

"Wait," said Cyneheard. "If I'm not here when Cynewulf arrives, tell him that he may not become a monk."

Brihtric stared.

"_Then_," added Cyneheard, "you can go die…"

Brihtric retreated, still staring.

"Oh, Brihtric—"

"Ye-es?" asked Brihtric, nervously.

"We won, didn't we?"

"Yes."

"How long ago?"

"Just yesterday."

Cyneheard made a gesture of dismissal and then climbed out of bed to dress himself. He hadn't drowned, after all. A pity about being liked, but that was life.

——

  


In the wee hours of the morning, at St. Valery, someone bellowed—

_"South wind!"_

Its nerves on edge, William's army considered murdering that someone, but the realization that the wind _was _blowing south stopped it. There was a collective pause, and then everyone broke for the ships, trampling each other and everything that stood in their way.

But, despite this, they did not get ready in time. It was getting into the afternoon once everyone was bundled aboard the boats. It was a twelve-hour trip to England—and William emphatically did _not_ want to attempt a landing in the middle of the night. Instead, the order was sent to wait until dark—by the time the fleet reached England, it would be early morning.

——

**Dun, dun, _dun_—what will happen next, you ask? Well, actually, you should already _know _what happens next, but for sake of tradition, we will ask that question. Anyway, since there was a bit of time-bouncing in this chapter, here's a time-line:**

**13th—Fleet is driven to St. Valery's**

**26th—Battle of Stamford Bridge**

**27th—Fleet leaves St. Valery's.**

**Get it? Got it? Good.**

**Now, before someone tells me I made up the whole berserker bit just so that Cyneheard could look really cool, it's a bona fide story, entered into the _Anglo-Saxon Chronicle._ Whether or not it's true is a matter of opinion. I just happen to like it.**

**The Harold-Tostig and Tostig-Harald conversations have been replicated _practically _verbatim from Snorri Sturlasson's account—well, actually, practically verbatim from the (assumedly) verbatim translation in _1066: The Year of the Conquest_. I have taken liberties with it--Tostig's emphasis on the word _then _and _now_ is actually mine, and I condensed/had the listeners tune out when he was basically repeating himself. I've also played around with the attitudes, etc. when they say their lines, and left out altogether a part where Harald composes a few lines of poetry. If anyone wants to read the original conversation, then they can feel free to ask me to e-mail it to them.**

**B/k: Yes, yes, yay for the sheep. If all the sheep of England were pointed against the Normans, the Conquest could not succeed. (Who wants to bet _no one_ will get that allusion?)**

**

****Tuulikki:**

**ebul********lient**

**Function: _adjective_****_ADVANCE x468_****__********Etymology: Latin _ebullient-, ebulliens, _present participle of _ebullire _to bubble out, from _e- bullire _to bubble, boil****ADVANCE x468******** 1 : BOILING, AGITATED**

**2 : characterized by ebullience**

** - ebul********lient********ly _adverb_**

**(It's hard to find things on Finnish history over here—I've found three books in general. _Finland, A Short History_; _Finland, A Brief History_; and _Finland, A History_. You have to wonder if the authors drew lots or something for their titles…)**

**angelkohaku: Whoot! (And the people were certainly motivated… (grin))**

**Kiita: (reviews lumped together) House-Carls do not "meep"! They…um…(considers fan girl terrorizing ability) They "meep" in Anglo-Saxon. (nod)**

**Myaow: Right, _sure_ you're not Myaow… Anyway, I think you're translating the wrong name, because there's no "wulf" in Cyneheard's name. (And the translation for "Cyneheard" is at the beginning, O Observant One. Though I read somewhere that it means "noble shepherd". That would ruin the name… (sigh))**

**Happy to get your review, though. (grin)**

**Silver Dragon Golden Dragon: Eeeeeemblem... (dizzy eyes)**


	7. Beginning of the End

_The man shot down the road, face contorted in pain. The little horse beneath him seemed to fly, running through the forest and crashing finally through the outer border of Horstede. The rider screamed to the little town, fast asleep:_

"Wake!"

Deor rubbed his eyes in the grey quiet before daybreak, and looked vaguely around his cottage for the rider. Funny how dreams did that to you: Wulfgar had once woken up convinced he was the king.

"Wake!"

Deor gazed blankly at the door. _That had to be a dream..._

_Did it?_ asked Ecghete, who never seemed to sleep.

"Wake!" cried the rider, voice hoarse with desperation.

Deor stumbled outside, and stared at the man. He had slipped off the horse and crouched beside it, shivering in the morning air. One hand clenched a handful of earth, and the other he used to keep himself from collapsing onto the ground. There was a long, ragged gash on the erstwhile rider's right leg, and the rest of him was covered in various scratches.

The man gaped at Deor as if he were an angel from heaven.

"You must deliver a message...to...Harold..."

Deor inwardly started to shriek. _No. _He wanted Ecghete _nowhere _near his king.

"...William of Normandy," whispered the man, "has landed at Pevensy..."

Slow-waking villagers looked curiously at Deor, silent and pale, and the fast fading man, at his fine garments and horse.

"Do you know who that is?" whispered Ælfwynn's father. "It's the thegn of Pevensy!"

His wife looked at her husband patiently. A good man, but inclined to flights of romantic fancies. "No, dear. It _couldn't_ be the thegn of Pevensy. There's no reason for him to come all the way out here."

"But it is!" hissed the father. "I've seen him, woman!"

"Yes, yes, dear," said his wife.

Whether or not he was the thegn of Pevensy, the wounded man seemed satisfied. He had completed his service to his king. One faltering hand passed Deor the horse's reins.

"You must tell Harold—you must make haste..."

With that final remark, he clutched his leg, and then fell.

Dead.

——

The argument had gone around in circles for almost an hour now.

"Deor's right," snapped Uther. "To _really _send him would be foolishness. The house-carl passed over him for the fyrd, and his experience in riding is sparse. The dead man just saw him first. _Get that through your head!_"

Ælfwynn's father (predictably) was heading the opposition. His wife, as it happens, was incorrect—her husband was not prone to flights of fancy. He was prone to flights of practicality. Unfortunately for Deor, he was not taking one of those flights now.

"That man chose Deor when he was dying," bellowed Ælfwynn's father. "We cannot know what the dying understand—there _must _have been a special reason for it."

Wulfgar looked at his friend encouragingly. Inside, he was dying to be chosen. A chance to be a hero! A chance to rub _this_ achievement in that haughty house-carl's face, as well. He'd miss his sister, of course, but a chance like this... He sighed. Such a good friend he had—he _knew_ Deor was giving up this opportunity to open a door for Wulfgar. But he also knew that it would be dishonorable to deprive Deor of it.

He wasn't the only one who thought that. Aldwulf though about how brave he'd look in the exceptionally pretty brown eyes of Wærthryth. Of course, Wærthryth already thought he was brave, to be sure, but it never hurt to be _certain_. Deor, he thought, was certainly the most unselfish of friends—denying himself such glory! Still, Aldwulf firmly decided _not _to take advantage of this unselfishness. It would make Wærthryth love him more, he was sure.

As a matter of fact, practically every man in the room was certain Deor was committing a beautiful act of unselfish friendship—even towards those in the room who were certainly not his friend—and equally certain that they mustn't use that act for their personal glory. Virtue was its own reward: well, here was a good illustration of that.

Deor stood apart, nearly shaking as the argument went back and forth. He had an excellent reason not to go—named Ecghete—but he doubted that informing the villagers of the demon's existence would help matters greatly.

_No. It's been tried before,_ Ecghete informed him. _If you aren't declared insane, you'll be sent for exorcision. I do _not _like my hosts going to priests for exorcision. But have no worries, mortal. I have no interest in killing your piddling amateur of a king. I have an much older and much more experienced king to destroy._

Deor would have felt indignant, but at the moment he was too relieved. Still—he had no idea of exactly how far Ecghete could be trusted, if he could be trusted at all. The demon could merely be lying in order to gain accessability to Harold—for a moment Deor had the wild image of William summoning a demon in order to assassinate Harold without the trouble of war.

The pendant, hidden safely under his tunic, quivered in silent metal laughter. _Paranoid little fellow, aren't you?_

The argument was turning in Ælfwynn's father's favor. Deor gulped, and waited for the inevitable doom to fall.

_And useless,_ muttered Ecghete. _I can't afford your going anywhere. I believe my king is with this William—in any case, he's close._

Deor pointed out that his existence was not designed for Ecghete's personal convenience.

_That's what _you_ think. Fine. If you won't help yourself, then I will._

Darkness tugged at Deor's soul and mind, sucking him back into the swirling blackness of limbo. Faintly, he could see the grey dream-shapes of men, still standing outside around the horse; faintly, he could hear the rising voices.

Ecghete stepped lightly over to Ælfwynn's father. Smiling benevolently at the muttering Englishmen, he raised a hand for silence. The face changed from one of benevolence to that of someone with great words to say.

"What this man says is true: I was chosen by a man on the brink of death, and who knows what the dying may discern that is beyond the ken of the living?"

Deor, with great effort, spoke across limbo. _Stop being melodramatic. No one talks that way._

Ecghete bristled. "But just because the man handed me the reins does not mean I am to continue holding them. Perhaps he knew I would be wise enough to choose someone else—someone brave and persevering, the ideal messenger to represent Horstede to the king."

Everyone hung on his words. Perhaps, just perhaps he had worked some of the strange powers of that pendant into his voice, but more than likely it was pure vocabulary that entranced them. The only person not swept away was Wulfgar, who could not understand half of what Ecghete said. He stared at the calm, self-assured speaker, and one lone, crazy thought darted through his mind:

That wasn't Deor.

The speaker glanced at Wulfgar while he still spoke, and for half a moment the eyes narrowed and sent a stream of pure hatred at the boy. Not only did this boy ignore him, but he knew. Ecghete pulled himself back together—the boy could be easily disposed of. The speech was far more important than some English youth.

"I believe," continued Ecghete, "_that _is why I woke up in time to hear his final words. For I know who should go to the king as a messenger."

Ecghete took the reins of the horse up in one hand, and then with a quick flourish, knelt and presented the straps of leather to Wulfgar. There was a moment of breathless admiration and jealousy, and everyone waited for Wulfgar to accept the reins.

For a second, the youth hesitated. He knew this thing that spoke with Deor's voice and lived in Deor's body was not Deor—and that it was offering him a great honor. An honor that _should _be Deor's...

The snowy head tilted upwards to look at Wulfgar, and Deor stared up at him, face insistent. The eyes were inscrutable and the only thing shown in them was Wulfgar's own reflection...

But perhaps, just perhaps...there might be...

Fear?

Wulfgar took the reins.

"Ride," whispered Deor, leading Wulfgar to the horse. "Ride—the wolves of slaughter are biting at your heels."

——

"I hate England," said Alain.

He was ignored.

"It's so _dismal_, don't you think?" he asked Robert.

Robert blinked vaguely. "Oh...I suppose...it's quite nice..."

Alain gave up.

The soldiers stared at the endless, forbidding forests that completely surrounded them. Somewhere, in the forest, an animal called: their imaginations instantly turned the call into a howl of warfare from a nightmare-beast of gigantic proportions.

"It's judgement," said Stephen, looking _almost _happy.

He received a collective order to be quiet from everyone within hearing range.

When the army had landed at Pevensy, William had ridden out to prove himself master of all he surveyed. There was a minor disaster—no knew exactly what it was—and William had decided that Pevensy was not suitable. So the army had been ordered to go to the Abbey of Fècamp: a place that would be friendly to the army. Having looted half of Pevensy between the landing and the interlude, the soldiers set off. To their delight, there were _more _villages between Fècamp and Pevensy. These were overridden; some destroyed entirely.

Robert and Stephen had brought food and for the most part, did not participate. Alain had brought food and participated quite happily: looted items could be valuable.

But now they sat at Fècamp, amidst the silent forest that could hide a thousand unfriendly eyes, and wondered exactly how many villagers lay dead, and how many villages were ashes. The dead couldn't _really_ wreak vengeance...

Right?

An odd, rhythmic pounding was crashing against Stephen's skull: senseless, chaotic smashing, _bam crash boom thwhack pound_...

"Are you well?" inquired an anxious Robert. Stephen shook his head.

"I think I'll...go where it's quiet for a while..." he muttered, getting to his feet. Robert moved to stop him, then decided Stephen knew best and sat back on the damp English grass.

But there was no quiet.

_Ratatatat whack crash bang..._

Stephen paused. The _forests_ were quiet...

He stumbled beneath the shade of the trees, finding silence at last. The clatter of the army faded away to nothing: the cool air of the forest at first relieved him of the pain in his head.

Not for long.

_Boom pound ratatatat bam roar _rip_..._

Stephen was a knight, trained in the art of warfare. He could bear armor and weapons, ride a horse through battle and keep it steady.

But he collapsed beneath the tearing of his skull.

——

"Harold's not _here_?" screamed a panicked Wulfgar.

"No," said the man. In a dry, emotionless voice (he had repeated this many times), he continued; "_King_ Harold has gone to York, having been summoned there on urgent business by the people of York."

"Where is York?!"

The man tsk-ed tsk-ed. Such ignorance amongst the populace was truly astounding. Still, he outlined the directions and sent Wulfgar on his way.

The horse shot far down the road, away from London, down to York. Wulfgar threw one glance backwards to assure himself hordes of Normans weren't pouring down the road, and then concentrated on riding.

——

Brihtric stood on his feet, slightly intoxicated. It had been seven days since Stamford Bridge, and the victory feast was roaring along, mead passed freely—perhaps a bit too freely—and the fighters rejoiced in eating huge quantities of beef.

"I pro...propose a toast," said Brihtric, unsteadily. Since practically everyone in the room was equally unsteady, no one noticed that and paid him close attention. Toasts meant more mead.

"To..." He paused. _Everyone_ had been toasted, and a good many things as well: one _extremely _unsteady house-carl had proposed a toast to his battle-ax, for splitting so many helmets.

"To..."

_What to toast?_ Brihtric ran through lists of possible items in his mind frantically. _Aha!_

"To mead!"

There was a general noise of approval—the few sober men, among them Harold and Cyneheard, groaned—and the toast was passed around. The mood of merriment was heightened; men swapped indecent riddles; a thegn attempted to dance on the table—

Someone ran into the room, smelling strongly of horse. Cyneheard recognized him: the annoying village boy. What was he doing here?

"Need—to—speak—to—King—Harold," gasped the boy, gulping air. He had ridden the horse dead and ran the last part of the way—fortunately, that was quite short—and now was terrified he would drop dead before speaking his piece.

Harold stood. Wulfgar recognized him and limped over, breathing hard.

"William," he squeaked, "landed...at...Pevensy..."

Then he fell over.

——

**One last chapter. Seven days to write it. I'm going to be having some sleepless nights… Oh well. My fault for not using my time wisely.**

**I claim poetic license for Wulfgar's ride—it might have taken him another day to reach Harold, but I had to fit in with the timeline, so I'm hoping that it doesn't seem too fantastic.**

**Incidentally, if anyone gets the interesting part of the "wolves of slaughter" reference, tell me. It means that there are other Anglo-Saxon fanatics, somewhere…out there…**

Replies 

Tuulikki: Hm… Perhaps A Very Short History of Finland Because the Writer Is Too Lazy to Actually Put In Any Detail. (grin) Anyway, what happens next is called the Battle of Hastings, so you aren't excused. Nope. Then again, I did meet someone who'd never heard of 1066, which was a shock. (wails) My poor Saxons, buried forever beneath moronic history textbooks that talk about how great William was…

**"Cynic heart"? That definitely fits. And here: for your review you get a piece of the Miraculous, House-Carl Sized Barrel © free of charge.**

**Kiita: Yes—and berserkers also were incapable of feeling pain or fear of death. That meant that a berserker could continue fighting with a mortal wound and never know: and since _knowing_ you're about to drop dead increases the speed at which it happens, berserkers could last quite a while.**

**Anyway… There's a difference between having fans and being liked. When people are cheering you on, that's one thing—when people you barely know and don't like come up and say: "_Cyneheard! _How are you old-buddy old-pal old-friend, huh?" But point taken.******


	8. Hastings

**At ****the request of by beta, here's a definition of a term for you: excommunication. It means being exiled from communion; being denied the sacraments; and, in short, being sentenced to Hell.**

——

In the forest, the body of the man did not stir. The animals regarded it curiously: the man was certainly alive, but he would not move. A daring little fawn came up to the man, sniffed him, and ran away, only to stand just out of reach and watch for any reactions. After a short time, he became restless and went off to more interesting forest mysteries.

A bird hopped up by the man's ear, tilting its head to one side, then the next. Then she around to his face, this time pulling slightly at the dirty blond hair…

The man's head shot up, and she stared at him for one petrified moment before he caught her. Not with his hands.

With his mouth.

A few minutes later, he spat out what was left of the bird and looked around. He saw no more birds in the immediate area—the sudden movement of his head had been startling enough, omitting what followed after—and made a noise of disappointment.

Never mind. There would be more birds.

——

_William came._

No one at the feast but Harold had truly believed William would come. The news struck them all sober and they stared at each other, faces pale. William was coming with a fresh army, and they had only fought a battle one week ago…

Every soldier simultaneously turned to glare at Edwin and Morkere. _If you had done your job we wouldn't be _having _this problem…_snapped three thousand pairs of eyes.

Morkere shrank into nothing—which he did rather often—and Edwin ignored them.

"We must ride to London," Harold snapped. "Get the army ready."

"But…" Edwin coughed politely. "My king, it is a long ride to London, and the men are tired… One day's rest could hardly affect the whole nation."

Harold glared at him. "We are _riding to London._"

"Yes—but—I mean—"

"We are riding to London," bellowed Harold, "the instant this army gets on its feet and goes out to fight the enemy. I will not wait for anyone who dawdles in gathering together his armor. _Get up and move!_"

Historians still marvel at the speed the Anglo-Saxon army made, still licking its wounds, as it rode across the country back to London. If the army had sprouted wings, it could scarcely have reached the city quicker. It reached London in four days and then instantly went to sleep.

But Harold reached the city a little later than the others—he stopped a few miles before entering London and went instead into an abbey he had built, called Waltham. He went to pray and find for a fleeting moment some peace…to assure himself that he was guiltless…

His brothers were waiting for him.

"Well?" asked Gyrth. He was impatient.

"I saw…" Harold faltered. "I am at peace."

"That's what you came for, isn't it?" Gyrth queried, bluntly.

"Yes."

——

Cynewulf watched his brother preparing for war—checking his equipment, sharpening his sword, and packing clothes and food. The little boy felt uneasy. He'd seen Cyneheard prepare before, of course, but there was a mood in the preparations this time that Cynewulf had not felt before.

"Cyneheard?"

The man looked at his brother quizzically.

"Do you have to go to war?"

That was a surprise. Cynewulf had always been surprisingly unworried when Cyneheard went to war—Cyneheard had heard stories told by house-carls of mothers and sweethearts who threatened to jump off cliffs, join nunneries, get married to another, and a million other things in the attempt to keep the house-carl from joining battle.

"Yes," he told his brother.

"Are you sure?" asked Cynewulf. "You couldn't stay home just this time?"

"No," said Cyneheard. "Especially not this time."

"Why?" asked Cynewulf.

"Because in the other wars," Cyneheard said, stopping his preparations and going over to his brother, "we were dealing with little enemies—little raiders, who burn a little, hurt a little, and die. But this time we are dealing with a great enemy—a strong leader who leads well-trained men on horseback. They want—and will, if we can't stop them—something more than burning a little. They want _England._ And we can't let them have it. That's why this time, I must go to war."

He paused as Cynewulf absorbed all this, and added:

"_Wyrd oft nereð unfaégne eorl þonne his ellen déah._"

[Fate often saves an undoomed man when his courage is good.]

Cynewulf brightened at the quotation from Beowulf—something he knew. On impulse, he hugged his older brother. (He nearly cut off Cyneheard's air supply—the house-carl was wearing his mail.) Then he held something out.

"Take this," he said. "For luck."

It was the little wooden dragon Cyneheard had carved. Cyneheard picked it up, and smiled at his younger brother. "I'll carve a little hole and wear it around my neck. After all," he said, "It's the symbol of England! The dragon…"

Cynewulf grinned. "And when you come back, will Harold have the _scop_ recite _Beowulf_, all the way through?"

"Yes," Cyneheard assured him. "All the way through."

And then, as a taste, he started to recite:

_"Þá wæs on sálum sinces brytta_

_gamolfeax ond gúðróf géoce gelýfde_

_brego Beorht-Dena gehýrde on Béowulfe_

_folces hyrde fæstraédne geþóht**·**_

_ðaér wæs hæleþa hleahtor**·** hlyn swynsode**·**_

_word waéron wynsume**.** Éode Wealhþéow for_

[Then the treasure-giver was greatly pleased,

gray-bearded, battle-famed, chief of the Bright-Danes;

the nation's shepherd counted on Beowulf,

on the warrior's help, when he heard such resolve.

There was laughter and noise, a pleasing din,

the glad words of men. Wealhtheow came forward…]

He rode away with the rest of army towards Hastings. Brihtric stayed behind—he was too old to fight two straight battles, and Cyneheard had entrusted him with Cynewulf until he returned.

Cynewulf watched him leaving, waiting impatiently for when Cyneheard would return. But unconsciously, Cyneheard had lied to the boy.

There would never be a _when_.

——

They arrived at Hastings, as the _fyrd_ came in from most of the surrounding country. A message went from Harold to William, and then from William to Harold—both sides were fairly certain of what they would hear and listened to the messages with only half a mind: the other half was composing rebuttals.

But in the message William sent, something was there that neither Harold nor anyone listening expected—not Gyrth and Leofwine, his brothers; not the menacing house-carls. That one thing would destroy Harold before the battle ever started.

It consisted of one word.

_Excommunicated._

Everyone in the room stared at the messenger—an obviously uncomfortable monk—as if he had only just appeared. The monk faltered and fell silent beneath the shocked and frightened glances of the six men in the room.

"What?" asked Harold. He was speaking quietly, but the dead silence in the room made everyone wince as if he had screamed at the monk.

"William wishes to say…"

"No," snapped Harold. "Not that part."

The monk swallowed, and then whispered, "You and your followers have been…"

"_Say it!_" hissed Harold.

"…excommunicated…"

Harold's soul was ripping, ripping slowly and agonizingly.

"Why?" asked the king, half-sobbing, half-angry. He could see Hell… Hell lay in the eyes of a man who whispered eternal damnation…

The monk shrank before him. Gyrth and Leofwine sat motionless, mouths frozen in sounding out _ex._ Two of the house-carls were quietly leaving—the third stood still, dark blue eyes fastened on the monk.

In the woods, the word was whispered from tree to tree in ugly raspings: _excommunication._ The brooks slapped against the muddy banks, sneering: _excommunication._ The call of a nocturnal bird rang over the land, calling: _excommunication._ The night could talk of nothing but the promise of damnation.

But the monk said nothing.

"_Why?_" begged Harold.

Silence.

"Tell him!" snarled the house-carl. He grabbed the monk by the throat, staring at him with hatred. "Tell him, you fat little—"

"Put him down," commanded Harold. "He is a man of God."

The house-carl took a few steps back, away from the monk. The monk looked at them both frantically, apparently wondering whether he should finish his message or run for his life. The house-carl was visibly seething: he was like a chained, berserk wolf. At the slightest command he would probably rip the monk to pieces.

"I don't know," said the monk. "I was not told…" He glanced uneasily at the house-carl. "Allow me to finish my message."

Harold nodded. "And do not fear Cyneheard. He will not hurt you."

"William…asks for single combat between the two of you to decide who might be in the right…"

_Single combat? Right. That's why he brought the army over here, isn't it?_ thought Cyneheard. _That's why he's sent us all to Hell, hasn't he? For single combat! HA!_

"We march at once," Harold told the monk.

The monk looked at him questioningly.

"We march to battle."

"But—single combat—"

"You may go and tell William that tomorrow, we will face him—that tomorrow, the hand of the Lord shall show the rightful claimant."

The monk stuttered, back away, and fled into the night.

"Ex…" Leofwine shook his head. "What could you _possibly_ have done?"

"I swore an oath," said Harold, mechanically. "I had to."

"Out with it," commanded Gyrth. "Why didn't you tell us this before?"

Harold paused. "It was two years ago. I went out fishing, and there was a storm—remember?"

"Yes," said Gyrth. "Mother went berserk. Go on."

"I was blown off-course, and landed at Normandy. Well—not quite at Normandy. I landed on a neighboring count's land, and promptly ended up in prison. But William heard of it—somehow—and he came and demanded my release.

"I liked William—liked and feared him. I fought alongside him and saw how merciless he could be in battle: I lived at his home and saw the devout kindness he gave to his wife. But I could not forget Wulfnoth, who was a hostage in Normandy then, is a hostage in Normandy now, and who will probably be a hostage in Normandy ten years from now."

(Wulfnoth was the youngest brother in Harold's family.)

"And I was as much as hostage as Wulfnoth, despite not being one in name—I had been shipwrecked. If I needed anything, I had to get it from William: if I was ever to get home, it would be from William's consent and aid. He refused to free Wulfnoth for a trivial reason…and then…

"I had to swear an oath—to support William as the next king of England. And I did! When the men talked of who would be king, then I spoke for William! I spoke for him in private and in public, and I tried to convince the witan. But they chose me—and they represented England… I couldn't just abdicate in favor of William. I had suggested him and they wouldn't hear of it—abdication would do _nothing!_ Nothing, do you see?"

He looked pleadingly at the three men in his headquarters, and they nodded.

"I shouldn't have sworn the oath—I knew it then, and I know it better now. But I thought it was the only way to get home…and I liked William… We were friends, and I thought, perhaps he might understand…"

"It doesn't seem to be a reason for ex…that," mused Leofwine. "Is that the only heinous sin you've committed?"

He received withering glances.

"It must be a lie," Cyneheard snapped. "We've had spies in Normandy—we've sent our tribute to Rome—we are a faithful people—and we were never asked! The Pope never sent to us, never heard Harold…"

"But why should the monk lie?" asked Gyrth. "Or William, for that matter? How could anyone lie about…"

"And Harold did what he could…"

Harold looked at the three furiously arguing men—all trying to convince themselves that they really were in the right, that they were not sinking at every second into the depths of Hell…

Cyneheard left, too angry to continue speaking. Excommunicated! And for what? For preferring a king that spoke their own language, knew their own ways…

He wondered if the other house-carls had told. It wouldn't surprise him. He looked around at the men, nervous and quiet. It could just be pre-battle nervousness, of course. But he could feel the word _excommunication_ hanging in the air, a deadly poison waiting to be loosed.

Well, _he _would not loose it.

He wandered through the camp, then noticed a few men—farmers?—near the edges…with packs…looking around to see if anyone noticed them…

_Deserters._

Wulfgar was closer to the deserters than Cyneheard, but he before he could stop them, he noticed the sprinting house-carl. He and Cyneheard hated each other enough as it was—better not to be seen with deserters.

"And you're going?" snapped Cyneheard, drawing up to the men.

"Home," one of them told him.

"Really?" hissed Cyneheard. "Right now your _home _is a place for you to sleep tonight _before_ you go out to slaughter William tomorrow."

"Perhaps," answered the man, shrugging. "But I'd like to know what Harold's ever done for me, that I should risk my soul trying to save his position."

Cyneheard looked as if he'd been physically struck, and then started to speak: softly, dangerously; his dark blue eyes were fastened on the man before him.

The man couldn't move.

"What has he done?" asked Cyneheard. "He's kept peace for this land for many years—even when it was another king's duty. He's watched two brothers die and left another to rot. He's risked his honor; he's risked his love; he's now fighting a battle that could send him straight to Hell so that you can stuff your fat faces beneath a free English sky and talk about how useless he is!"

He lashed out abruptly, striking the man across the face. All of his anger towards the monk and towards William and even towards Heaven for not instantly striking the monk with lightning as he lied poured out over this man.

"Go on," sneered Cyneheard. "Go, run away. This army has no need for men like you. Risk your soul? You don't have one."

The man backed away, and ran, dropping his pack.

Cyneheard looked around and saw Wulfgar. "Are you leaving too, village boy? Are you running off like a dog?"

Wulfgar shook his head.

"Why not?"

"Because…it's my duty!" snapped Wulfgar. Why did Cyneheard act this way? Of all the villagers in the world, why single Wulfgar out for special hatred? "What other reason do I need?"

"Don't you just want to be a hero?" asked Cyneheard. "Go home with a scratch and tell girls how fifty Norman knights with fire-breathing steeds came and attacked you? That's the only reason _you're_ here—because you want to be a dragon-slaying Beowulf without any of the hardship."

He stalked off.

"That's not true!" Wulfgar yelled.

Cyneheard walked away without turning to glance at him.

——

The Normans charged up the hill, crashing into the English defense. They were repelled. The Normans roared their battle-cry of _Dex aïe_—the English were too angry for "Holy Cross", so they shouted defiantly: _Ut! Ut!_ [Out! Out!]

Then the knights attacking the right wing of the English army broke apart, fleeing the English soldiers wildly. The right wing shouted _Ut!_ with great fervor and chased the knights, who were throwing the infantry and archers into confusion. Hundreds of horses fell into a single ditch; on the muddy floor of the valley where the battle was being fought, horsemen struggled.

Just for a second, the battle swung by a hair.

If the line had followed the right wing, William might have been crushed.

But the world would never know—the line did not follow. And the right wing of the army stood alone, stranded in the midst of the enemy—and William was bearing down upon them.

"Form a shield wall!" Cyneheard snapped to the men around him.

They looked at him, blinking, frozen.

"Do you want to _die?_" he shrieked. "_Form a shield wall!_"

But there wasn't time—and the Normans were falling down upon them—

Cyneheard dropped his sword and used a battle-ax—a weapon the Normans did not know. He had stood in the front line and watched the wounds it could inflict on horses. He knew that very soon, he would die. There was no way this bunch of frightened men could beat the Normans.

But perhaps, just perhaps, they could kill enough to turn the tide of battle…

The first knight he spotted who was close enough to kill appeared to be wearing a good-luck charm—an upside-down pyramid of gold. Before Cyneheard could attack, the man had done…_something_ to first few men he had met. Cyneheard had not seen a weapon move, but he saw the men drop, and hacked at the legs of the knight's steed. It screamed in pain, and shook off the rider.

The knight turned towards Cyneheard, and raised one hand, thrusting it forward and calling something in French. Cyneheard dropped flat and watched as the man behind him fell screaming.

_The good-luck charm._

Cyneheard attacked, aiming not for the body of his enemy, but the golden pyramid—the shaft of his ax slammed against the pyramid, shattering it into a hundred strange pieces…

The knight dropped, and someone screamed in rage. Cyneheard turned—and for a second, he thought he saw a dark man in a robe, face distorted with anger—and then he saw the shining curve of a weapon, that he could not block in time.

But it sank into something else before it struck him, and so did not kill him instantly—it was stopped by the little dragon…

——

It had started that morning.

Ecghete had been restless and bored, and had inquired of Deor how many people there were in Horstede.

The answer: one hundred.

Deor had no idea what significance "one hundred" had for Ecghete, but it meant something important. Ecghete suddenly started asking questions: was Horstede well equipped against attacks? Did the people know how to use weapons?

No and no.

_Why are you so curious?_ asked Deor.

_My king is here…very, very close,_ hissed Ecghete. _But I will not reach him. Your village has one hundred people._

Deor pointed out that most of the men were at war, and then asked why Ecghete was so anxious about "one hundred".

_It would not mean anything to you,_ Ecghete informed him.

_Tell me anyway,_ Deor said.

_Kuru Eruna,_ Ecghete murmured mentally, _village of a hundred people—all dead. All but me. And the man who killed them is _here_—and he will do it again…_

Deor was feeding a dog at the time, but he stopped at that. _When?_

He did not wait for Ecghete's answer. He ran outside, looking up and down the pathway—the village was half-empty. Of course all the fighting men were in the army—and the only one who could have understood was Wulfgar, and he was gone long before.

But perhaps there was still hope…

"Ælfwynn!" he called, running up and pounding on her door.

She came out, looking at him curiously.

"Deor?"

"Ælfwynn, you must do me a favor…"

"What?" she asked.

"You need to go and hide in the forest. There's a little cave near the brook—the one with the berry bushes—you must go and hide there, and take anyone who will listen…"

"Why?" asked Ælfwynn. "Deor—you've been behaving strangely ever since that house-carl came…"

"No," said a raspy voice. "_He _hasn't."

Someone else looked at her through Deor's eye. Just for a moment, the face was split—one side Deor, the large brown eye pleading with her; the other side the Someone, eye narrow and mocking her. Then he was Deor again.

Ælfwynn backed away. "Deor—who—what—"

"Will you hide?" he asked her.

"Yes," she told him. "And I'll take anyone who heeds me—but Deor, will you tell me what's happened to you?"

"Not now…" He grabbed her hand. "Don't waste time. Go as soon as you can, and don't come back until tomorrow morning. All right?"

She nodded, and pulled away.

Deor dashed through the beehives, tripped over something, and pulled himself up. He dug through the house for twine and a straight stick, and used this to tie his _seax_ to the stick. It was a makeshift javelin, and while he still had time, he wanted to practice. He went to the one place where he might find solitude: Æðelfry's grave. It was quiet there, and he practiced lunging (with much tripping) and slicing (with less tripping).

Perhaps it was the quiet and peace of the grave, and his absorption in practice, that caused him not to hear the first scream. But soon he heard the shrieking of the women who had been left behind, and the children who were too young to fight, all of it caused by one man…

If it was a man.

The stranger was tall and swayed from side to side, dirty blond hair tangled in brambles. There was blood all over his face and shirt, but not the stranger's blood. A few of the villagers were lying dead on the ground—had they opposed the stranger's attack?

Deor saw that one house was on fire. The fire licked at the next house hungrily…but the next house was not a house, it was the church…

The church where Æðelfryð lay… 

Deor attacked. It was unexpected, but futile. The stranger was a soldier of some sort—Norman, of course—and Deor barely managed to pull away alive.

_Aim to kill, you fool!_ snapped Ecghete. _Don't dodge—just go straight for his heart or his back and make sure you hit him._

Deor dodged again—he had to.

_Why do I bother?_ growled Ecghete. He took over.

Ecghete shoved the _seax_ deep into the stranger's heart, and left the stick jutting out. But he had gotten too close, and the stranger's sword hacked straight through his neck…and the world turned over, into a sea of darkness…

——

William stood in London, received as king by the English people. The faces around him were uneasy, distrustful, but ready to test him. _He looks like good man,_ people murmured to one another in English. _Perhaps he is one…_

"William!" called a woman from the crowd, in French.

He turned. She was a noblewoman, aged and worn with care, but bearing herself proudly.

"Yes?"

"I have lost my sons," she said, softly. "My husband I lost years before… Do me the honor of allowing me to bury just one of them."

William nearly answered "yes" on the spot. Of course he should let her son be buried—it was the honorable thing to do. But something about it irked him—something he could not place, but a very real and bothersome problem.

"Woman," he asked. "What is your son's name?"

Her face turned to lock his gaze, eye to eye.

"His name is Harold."

"No," said William. "Your son lies rotting on the cliff by the sea—when the cliff falls, so shall he, forgotten by the land he failed to steal."

"Let me bury my son!" she cried.

"No."

"I will pay his weight in gold," she said. "I will pay more than that… Just allow me to see him put to an honorable rest."

"No."

"_William!_" she screamed, in English. He could not understand her anymore.

"_Give me my son!_"

The hope in the heart of the English died as William walked away, silent.

"_Coward!_" she howled after him, face torn with grief. "You have stolen my children, dishonored my husband, conquered my land… _Coward!_"

The despair in her voice wormed its way into the hearts of the listeners—and from there, to the nation.

——

"English?" asked the Byzantine helping to unload the boat. The elder of the passengers—an experienced-looking man, though aged—nodded. The younger of the two said nothing, staring quietly out into the space beyond the sea.

"We see so many of you," sighed the Byzantine. "Soldiers, nobles, young children…" He looked down at the small, black-haired boy who was looking out to sea. "All of them crying, begging for news of anyone."

The boy turned. His eyes were dark grey—flat and lifeless. But something flickered within them for a moment, and he whispered:

"Have you seen my brother?"

"What does he look like?" asked the Bynzantine, startled.

"He is tall," murmured the boy. "He is tall and strong and he is the bravest, most loyal house-carl ever to be born. He has brown hair, very dark brown hair, and the most beautiful blue eyes… Like an icy sea… His name is Cyneheard."

The Byzantine looked at the distant grey eyes—alive only with great effort, as if looking from a world in another universe.

"No," he told the boy. "I haven't seen your brother."

"They say he's dead," the boy said in a sing-song voice. "They say he's dead, but they're all wrong… He's alive and he's coming to take me home, and soon I'll be a house-carl, too…" He smiled up at the Byzantine—a smile without joy or emotion, a smile devoid of everything but shape. "Will you give him this when you see him?"

The boy held out cupped hands, hands that carefully held out nothing.

"He made it for me," said the boy. "It's a dragon."

The Byzantine reached into the hands and carefully cradled the air in his hands. "I will," he assured the boy.

The boy smiled again.

The Byzantine looked at the older man. "He won't live very long, will he?"

"No," said the older man. "His soul is already gone… His body is late in following."

They looked at the smiling, lifeless boy who was looking once more at something beyond the sea—something beyond their ken.

_Oft him anhaga are gebide_

_metudes miltse þeahþe he modcearig_

_geond lagu lade longe sceolde_

_hreran mid hondum hrim cealde s_

_wadan wræclastas wyrd bið ful aræd!_

[Who liveth alone longeth for mercy,

Maker's mercy. Though he must traverse

Tracts of sea, sick at heart,

- Trouble with oars ice-cold waters,

The ways of exile - Weird is set fast.]

——

"Stupid English boy," snapped the guard, in French. He threw the wildly struggling youth into the cell and walked off. Wulfgar lifted himself up from the ground and ran to edge of the cell, up to the barrier.

"Listen!" screamed the boy. "_I did nothing!_"

The guard did not turn. He did not know English.

"What was I supposed to do?" shrieked Wulfgar. "Let some foreigner grind my sister into the dirt?"

The guard still did not look back.

"If Harold was king," hissed Wulfgar, "I would be heard."

But the guard could not understand him.

_Heald þú nú, hrúse, nú hæleð ne móstan_

_eorla aéhte**.** Hwæt, hyt aér on ___

_góde begéaton**·** gúðdéað fornam___

_feorhbeale frécne fyrena gehwylcne___

_léoda mínra þá mé ðe þis ofgeaf:_

_gesáwon seledréam**·** hé náh hwá sweord wege_

_oððe fægrie faéted waége_

_dryncfæt déore**·** duguð ellor séoc**·**_

_sceal se hearda helm hyrstedgolde_

_faétum befeallen**·** feormynd swefa_

_þá ðe beadogríman býwan sceoldon**·**_

_gé swylce séo herepád sío æt hilde gebád_

_ofer borda gebræc bite írena_

_brosnað æfter beorne**·** ne mæg byrnan hring_

_æfter wígfruman wíde féran_

_hæleðum be healfe**·** næs hearpan wyn_

_gomen gléobéames né gód hafoc_

_geond sæl swinge né se swifta mearh_

_burhstede béate**·** bealocwealm hafa_

_fela feorhcynna forð onsended._

[Hold now, earth, now that heroes may not,

the treasure of princes. From you long ago

good men took it. Death in battle,

awful life loss, took every man,

all of my people, who gave up this [life],

who knew hall-joys. Now I have none

who might carry sword, [polish] the cup,

gold-plated vessel; the company is gone.

The hardened helmet now must lose

its golden plates; the stewards sleep on

who were meant to burnish each battle-mask;

so too the war-coat that withstood in battle

the bite of iron across shield-clashings;

it decays like its warrior. Rusted, the chain-shirt

cannot follow close by the war-leader,

far beside heroes. No harp-joy,

play of song-wood—no good hawk

swings through the hall, nor the swift roan

stamps in the courtyard. An evil death

has swept away many living men.]

——

**Documentation of Anglo-Saxon poetry selections:**

**From "Beowulf", line 572b-573a [Cyneheard's short quotation—unsure of the translator. It might be Bruce Mitchell]**

**From "Beowulf", line 607-613 [longer recitation by Cyneheard, translated by Howell D. Chickering, Jr.]**

**From "The Wanderer" [selection three, final Cynewulf scene, translated by Michael Alexander]**

****

**_Weird_ equals _wyrd_, an untranslatable Anglo-Saxon word that at its most basic level means "fate". But it's a lot more than that. The "fate" in the first quotation is also _wyrd._**

****

**And the really, really long one that ended the story is also from Beowulf. It's commonly referred to as "The Lay of the Last Survivor". [translated by Howell D. Chickering]__**

**I don't think it was considerably OOC for Cyneheard to smile—at Cynewulf, that is. It is true that in the entirety of the show, I've only seen Kaiba smile once. But since that _was_ towards Mokuba… Oh well.**

**I think there are only three violations of Yu-Gi-Oh! canon that deserve noting: **

**1) ****Deor and Ecghete can communicate, even though Deor has not come into contact with another Millennium Item. I did this solely because I wanted to write a dramatic scene for Ecghete's appearance—I will excuse it by saying that the Anglo-Saxons had a greater appreciation of the supernatural and that it also took place on a grave, where Ecghete is much more potent… But I really did it because I wanted to write the scene.**

**2) ****Stephen. Technically, there should be no version of Marik in here, since the Ishtars are an ancient family in Egypt living underground. I wanted to write Marik in, so again this is canon violation because I really wanted to put something in the story.**

**3) ****The appearance of Dark Stephen. There is no Rishid in this story, and so I've had to release Dark Stephen without him. He is still born through the hatred and anger of Stephen, but in this version he comes out only after Stephen has been the witness to senseless carnage.**

**Anyway, it's been good to write this…perhaps some day I can de-Yu-Gi-Oh!ize it and make it into a story. (grin) So if you ever come across a 1066 novel with a house-carl named "Cyneheard", perhaps I wrote it. (Yeah, like that will ever happen… [snort])**

**As an aside: the report of excommunication that reached Harold was, in fact, false.**

**The End.__**


End file.
